On Ice
by StoryGardener
Summary: A large landing party crashes on a planet with hostile colonists and even worse weather. With Spock out and McCoy against him, can Kirk save his crew from certain death? Grand heroism and self-sacrifice! Novel-length, no slash. Major rewrite of 39 chapters, NOW (after more than a year!) COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**This is a rewrite of a story I published around the beginning of the year. I decided to simply delete all the old chapters and to replace them with the new chapters, one by one. I experimented a little and it looks like that way all the wonderful reviews, the favs and follows are not deleted (I hope I'm right). **

**I thank all the fans who wrote those reviews and kept up the encouragement despite my struggle to finish it. Now I can happily reveal that the end is in sight. I have the last chapters plotted, but will use the rewrite to build momentum for when I plunge into that ending. I hope you will use it like that as well. **

**Enjoy the ride! **

**Before I forget: I own nothing in this story except, perhaps, the weather.**

**Chapter 1**

They were three men, lost under the screaming mountain. They dragged themselves through the drift, through snow up to above their knees. The catabatic wind that barreled vertically down the mountain face was intent on crushing anything that rose above the surface, which it sculpted into a layer of ice inches thick, hard as cement.

The leader had long stopped lifting his boots to break through it from above. After each step he hacked at the ice shelf before him with a half-hearted swing of his small axe. Sometimes the ice calved off. More often it didn't. He forged on anyway, breaking through it with his legs, cutting and bruising the flesh and muscle of his thighs.

His body had become a wedge. His mind had become one thought.

_Keep the pace. _

The tight rope, linking him to the man behind him, jerked on his harness. He sucked in the razor sharp air that lacerated his throat and lungs and lost his balance. He fell backward into the furrow he had blazed, landing hard on the box strapped to his back, jarring his side.

He bit down against the pain in his ribs and gasped again when a tooth shattered in the back of his mouth.

He lay there, dazed, pain washing over him, blood pooling in his mouth. For a moment, he could not remember where he was, what he was doing here. He took a shallow breath, more like a sob. When he exhaled what little body heat he had seeped out to crystallize on his cracked lips, along with frozen pearls of blood.

He wanted to curl up and welcome the blanket of snow.

He grunted angrily, turned and spat blood and shards of tooth. Balancing against the weight of the box, he struggled to his feet.

He staggered to the fallen man, pulled him up. They stood for a second, supporting each other. He brought his face close to the other and pulled away his crudely crafted goggles and facemask. He squinted against the blizzard - the crystals clinging to his eyelashes threatened to fuse. His eyes were bloodshot in a face tight and pale as bone, streaked with blood where the tiny shards of ice cut him. But the hazel eyes were on fire.

"Paul!" Captain James Kirk yelled into the exhausted man's covered face. "You _have _to keep going!"

Johnson nodded, just once.

Kirk squeezed the man's shoulder and looked behind him to the third man, the miner. Rayan Grale was a giant – he stood over a head taller than Kirk – but now he stood bent over, resting his mittened hands on his knees.

He looked up at Kirk and nodded as well to indicate he was alright.

Kirk pulled his face mask and goggles back in place. He turned. The path he had cut was already gone.

_Keep going. Lead._

His body was a wedge.

00000000

Hours later it was a relief to be out of the mountain's shadow, but the blizzard kept at them. Kirk, still in the lead, could barely see a meter ahead of him for the thickening snow. His altitude headache, which troubled him more than the others, had honed his vision to a very narrow tube. His ears roared with the rush of his blood, pumped by an increasingly frantic heart that had nothing left to run on. Over the last two days he had furtively cut his own food rations so the others could have more. And he was effectively towing Johnson, who had given up, who was just humoring him now.

He fought the urge to lick his lips, to swallow. The thirst was agonizing. He hadn't drunk in over ten hours. Even with all this water around them, they were dehydrated, because to eat the snow or ice would thrust them into hypothermia. But they had to conserve their stove fuel, and they couldn't spare the strength to set up the tent, and they didn't want to stop moving.

_We stop, we freeze. _

_One more step_. _One more mile._ _Keep going_.

The rope pulled at him again. Again he fell back but, expecting it, he managed to brace his side against the impact. He rolled and looked back. All he saw was the rope, on the ground, disappearing in the darkened whirlwind of snow.

He found he couldn't stand so crawled the ten feet back on his hands and knees. Grale was already there.

"He's done!" the big man shouted over the howl of the wind.

Kirk looked up. Johnson had collapsed in the lee of a large boulder.

"Good place to set up camp!" Kirk yelled.

They fought the wind for the tent, almost lost it, finally bundled the unconscious Johnson into it. Kirk crawled in last.

Groaning, he eased himself onto the thin thermal blanket next to Johnson. The small tent could just about house the three of them at a crouch. It did little to keep out the noise of the wind, but it did trap their combined body heat. All three lay there, their breaths creating plumes, condensing on the walls where it froze instantly. When the wind shook the fabric, drops of ice rained down.

"Need – to –rest–" Grale gasped, his voice a mere whisper.

Kirk had heard him.

"No!" he yelled, forcing himself up on his elbow and slinging a stiff arm over Johnson's body to shake the miner, whose eyes had already closed. "Wake up!"

Grale's eyes shot open. He looked at Kirk like a man rudely yanked from deep sleep.

"Get the stove out, Commander Grale," Kirk ordered hoarsely.

Though Kirk had no authority over him, Grale obeyed automatically.

Shocked out of his own stupor, Kirk sat up, his back and legs screaming, already stiff after that short rest. He shook off his leaden mittens and pulled off the ice-encrusted mask. He intended to check out Johnson, but had to sit with his head in his hands, collecting himself.

His hands were numb. His face didn't quite feel like it was his.

"Head bad, Captain?" the miner asked.

Looking up was like lifting a ton of bricks with just his eyelids, but Kirk managed to smile.

"It'll pass," he lied.

Grale didn't question him. His hands were shaking so badly, he couldn't touch the small flame jutting from the lighter to the stove. Kirk reached over and steadied his arm. He looked at his hand and thought it was hardly recognizable as a human hand. It was a pale blue, the nails were blackened and torn, the skin around them deeply split.

Then he looked at Grale, Grale's face. It was scoured by the small ice particles that, despite the masks, still got to their skin and rubbed it raw. Underneath the angry red there was the telltale pallor of exhaustion, malnutrition, hypothermia.

Kirk wondered what he must look like.

_Wreckage_.

The fuel caught fire. He let go of Grale's arm, grabbed the pan from his pack, opened the tent flap a little and scooped up snow.

They drank the water as soon as it started steaming and managed to get some into Johnson, who had slipped into deep unconsciousness. Who was, Kirk knew, dying.

He swished the hot water around his mouth, chasing away the taste of old blood and washing out the broken tooth. His tongue caught on the shards and he winced when it touched the exposed nerve.

"We're close. I know it," he said, still grimacing.

Grale stared at him. Kirk held his breath. He knew that if the other contradicted him, he might give in. Give up.

But slowly Grale nodded his big head.

"I think so too."

Kirk breathed out. A puff of vapor. By now it was much warmer in the tent and it wasn't a blessing. His fingers, feet and face were on fire with the renewed circulation. The sweat that had frozen inside his clothing was dripping down his back, his chest, sending shivers though him. And it wasn't as if sitting still was restful. His muscles were starting to cramp with the sudden immobility.

Kirk glanced at the colonist. Kirk had always known that it might come down to one of them and that Grale might be the one. The giant was used to this climate and the extreme physical labor. He was also immune to the altitude sickness. He had certainly pulled his weight, literally too, as on this last stretch he carried more than half of their gear on his back while Kirk carried the rest and towed Johnson and blazed the trail.

"How is your foot?" Kirk asked.

Grale was trying to pull off his left boot. He cried out in pain. Kirk took out his knife and cut the boot off the foot. Grale gagged when he saw it: coal black, already stinking with rot. Kirk handed him a flask and Grale took a pull, grunting with gratitude. Kirk dug out his sleeping bag and wrapped the miner's foot in it.

"Thanks," said Grale. He passed the flask to kirk who also took a draught. They looked at the bundled up foot.

"Does it hurt?" Kirk asked.

"Nah," the colonist lied.

They both smiled grimly.

"Listen, Rayan, we both know that if we sit here much longer, we're dead."

"We can leave Johnson in the tent. Move on," Grale said.

Kirk didn't condemn him for wanting to leave Johnson, Kirk's own crew member, to die. He had witnessed some of the brutal existence of the colonists. He knew their very lives depended on the ruthless weeding out of weakness. But it was something Kirk couldn't accept, and he knew he was taking a double risk, saying what he had to.

"It doesn't look like you're going anywhere, mate," he said softly, using the moniker he had heard the colonists use for each other.

Kirk stiffly got to his knees, careful not to bump the tent.

"Stay with Johnson, keep him warm. _Don't_ go to sleep."

He closed his heavy coat. His trembling fingers, on fire, could hardly handle the latches.

"It's maybe another seven miles," he bit, fumbling with his hood. "I'll take nothing, I'll be quick."

"Aim for the pylon! It has a red flare mounted on it. Remember, the compound's surrounded by barbed wire. It's minimal, there's not even a gate, just an opening. But it's _there_. There's a cargo elevator at the base of the pylon, like at _Alpha Camp_. You'll find the control room and the supplies room, easy."

"I'll call them in, restock, come and get you," Kirk said. Grale nodded, silent. "If I'm not back in twenty hours, if the weather turns, maybe your foot is better-try it then. _Not earlier_. I can do it. I'll be back."

He pulled his face mask over his mouth and nose, snapped on the goggles and shoved his hands into his sopping wet gloves. His heart was pounding. He had to go. He had to get out of that tent, that grave. He had to _move_, for Johnson and Grale, and for the seventeen men in the shuttle, a hundred and thirty miles, a ten days' march, to the North, over a murderous mountain pass and a vast glacial field of crevasses and pressure ridges.

He made the mistake of looking up at Grale.

He opened the flap and threw himself out into the blizzard. It was like slamming into a wall of ice. It took his breath away.

A hand caught his arm.

"Don't go!" Grale shouted. Kirk could see the fear in the man's hard, ravaged face.

"I have to!" Kirk yelled. "Stay here, stay together. No one should be alone!"

"What about _you_?"

Kirk didn't hesitate.

"I am the Captain," he said, simply.

His voice hadn't carried. Grale could not have heard.

Kirk turned and walked away through snow up to his knees.

The miner watched the Captain go. Five steps and he was lost in the driving snow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part One**

**Chapter 2**

**Captain's log, star date 3455.2 **_We are in orbit around Ignis. Though a class-M planet, the icebound planet is hostile to all life. Nevertheless, two decades ago a group of humans set up a base and began mining the rich mineral stores. These men, who call themselves Colonists, did not consult the people of Shuria, the only planet in the system where intelligent life evolved. The Shurians have only recently attained the technology to make contact with the Federation. They also discovered the Colonist Base and appealed to the Federation to evict the humans, whom they call trespassers, from Ignis. Our job is to bring the Colonist leaders to Shuria for negotiations led by a Federation negotiator. We are to remain absolutely neutral in this matter – as, indeed, the Federation still is – but I foresee that this will be… challenging._

Kirk depressed the record button. He watched the image on the main screen with foreboding. Ignis was a massive planet, mostly icebound ocean punctured by a small polar continent of snow-encrusted bedrock. But at the moment all of that was hidden under a blanket of _weather_: a nest of massive storm systems, churning the atmosphere like great wheels of wind and ice.

"Challenging' may be an understatement, Captain," commented Spock, who was standing to the right of the Captain's chair. "The Shurians seemed only superficially open to negotiating at all. Ambassador Evans will have his hands full."

"I'm afraid there is an even shorter end of the stick, Spock," groused McCoy, who was leaning on the other side of the chair, "and we drew it! Rough men, surviving on _that_" – he nodded at the screen – "will take some serious persuading to give up their hard-earned home and income."

Kirk's smile was worried. "But they needn't give it up, Bones," he said. "That's what we're to persuade them of. Had they gone through the proper permitting, a Coming-of-Age Procedure would have been in place that would have been to the advantage of both parties. But they didn't, and the Mining Bureau turned a blind eye because the planet is so rich in minerals and no one else would take it on. Now Evans will have to make them see that the Procedure can still work. _Our_ job is merely to bring these Colonists to the negotiating table."

"We, and _they,_" Spock put in, "will have to stop using the name 'Colonists,' Captain. It naturally irks the Shurians. What we have here is, in effect, an interesting case study of what happens when a civilization expands its identity from its planet to its planetary system. The Coming-of-Age Procedure has stood up through centuries, but here it will be tested, once again. Indeed, who owns Ignis?"

McCoy took the bait.

"Why, when the Colonists landed on the planet, the Shurians weren't even aware of other life forms in the universe!"

"But they were aware of _Ignis_, Doctor," countered Spock, "and they were aware of it and indeed claimed it long before humans even set foot on a space ship."

McCoy was about to respond but Kirk interrupted, "Gentlemen, let's let the lawmakers and politicians sort that one out, shall we? Lieutenant Uhura, have you been able to raise the… miners?"

"No, Sir," said Uhura, frowning as she repositioned her ear piece. "There is too much interference. Communications cannot penetrate it."

Kirk turned to a man sitting at attention at the second science station.

"Mister Xiao?" he asked.

The young meteorologist straightened. "As I feared, Sir, the interaction between the minerals in the atmosphere and the magnetic dynamics at the pole prohibit extra-planetary communication as well as use of the transporter."

Kirk's heart sank.

"So we will have to take the shuttle_,_" he said.

"We have to wait for the weather above the base camp to clear, Sir," said Xiao, "before we can attempt it."

"'_Attempt_'?" spluttered McCoy, who had already straightening with alarm. "You mean to say, Jim, that we're going to have to take a shuttle into _that_, then stroll into their camp bearing this bad news _unannounced_?"

"Emphatically put, as always, Doctor, and correct, for once," Spock noted.

Kirk lifted a forbidding hand to stop his CMO's from pursuing. He nodded at Xiao to proceed.

"Fortunately," the meteorologist continued, "the current local blizzard will clear the area of the camp in approximately six hours, opening a window of navigable weather."

"How big is this window?" Kirk asked, trying not to sound suspicious.

"About twelve hours, Captain."

"And if we're not finished by then, how long before we can get out of there?"

"Ah," Xiao began, "though it may seem implausible, the weather on Ignis is remarkably stable. It follows general patterns of wind and ocean streams and pressure movements that have been in effect for centuries. It's fascinating, Captain! But as for _local_ predictions," he hesitated, apologetic, "I would need to gather data on the ground, Sir."

When Kirk said nothing, Xiao swallowed and added, "In its current state, a new window would conceivably open after three to five days, but-"

"-Good enough," Kirk cut him off. "Mister Spock, work with the quartermaster to outfit the _Audubon_ for seven days at the base camp. We don't want to impose on these people who are already stressed. Add extra supplies, medicine and a library of the latest entertainment for the Colo-miners. That will hopefully demonstrate to them that we are in favor of a long-term solution that doesn't involve shutting them down. Starfleet also wants us to do a quick but thorough survey of the minerals that are being mined and the infrastructure already in place. The party will consist of myself, Mister Spock, Mister Chekov, Geologists Ricks and Argyle, Mister Scott, as well as Doctor McCoy and Nurse Chang to examine and, if needed, treat the miners." As an aside he said to McCoy, "Apologize to Nurse Chapel, Bones: no women on this mission."

"I doubt Nurse Chapel will curse you for that decision," scoffed the Doctor, "and I doubt Nurse Chang will thank you!"

"No doubt, Bones. And to show them that we're serious, we'll bring a security detail of four, led by Lieutenant Johnson."

"Uhm, Captain?" a red-faced Xiao piped up anxiously.

Kirk's worried smile brightened a little. The kid was so young. A genius in his field, yes, and enthusiastic, but easily flustered.

"Ah yes, you too_, _Mister Xiao," he continued, "and your equipment, to study this _fascinating_—" he waved a hand at the screen, searching for the right word, "_fist_ of ice. Gentlemen, we have six hours. Let's prepare ourselves."

The bridge around him erupted in the commotion of orders being given, men leaving their posts, others replacing them. Kirk sat unmoving at the center of the bustle. He watched the image on the screen and frowned.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Because Xiao's window of navigable weather was at best a wide-open one on a blustery day, and because the landing party was extensive, they passed on the small _Copernicus_ and instead outfitted the _Audubon_. The heaviest midrange shuttle that could fit in the _Enterprise_ bay, they had picked it up at Starbase Four for just this purpose. It could hold a crew of sixteen and a good deal of scientific equipment and cargo.

Now, entering the planet's troposphere, Kirk was glad for the extra bulk and more powerful engines.

The cramped cockpit held two rows of two seats each, divided by a two-foot aisle. From his place in the second row, Kirk watched Spock and Scott piloting by the data relayed to them by com by Chief Meteorologist Xiao, who was taking his readings in the science section, a separate section aft of the craft.

Violent air currents were pushing them around like a feather. The shuttle's buffers barely managed to stabilize against the sudden shifts in pressure. Its engines groaned to keep them on course. In the main cabin, crew and equipment were jostled in their straps and belts. Glancing back at them through the narrow doorway, Kirk could see that a few were struggling to keep their meals down.

He cursed, wishing he had taken the helm or could take over now. In situations like these it was extra nerve-racking for him to sit helpless, useless. But unstrapping himself would mean serious injury to himself and everyone in the cockpit. All he could do was watch the navigator's monitor.

On it, their destination leaped off the screen as they were shoved around. Then it slowly drifted back on target as the engines strained. Out the narrow window, the glare of Ignis' sun was long gone, replaced by an ice-filled fog, which now, abruptly, turned to a black sludge.

The cockpit went dark but for the control lights. The pulsing noise of the engines and the howling wind became deafening.

"I thought he said the blizzard had cleared!" yelled McCoy, who was seated next to Kirk.

Kirk's response was cut off as they were violently tossed starboard and entered a sudden fifty-foot free-fall. Even the Captain, a veteran pilot not unaccustomed to bumpy rides and aerial stunts, was about to join the chorus of moans when, just as abruptly, everything calmed and the view brightened to the landscape below.

"We're through!" Xiao announced over the com.

"Typical weather man," grumbled the Doctor. "I can see that out the window!"

Moans turned to cheers all around him, but Kirk didn't relax. He unstrapped and leaned forward, resting a hand on Spock's shoulder. He felt a tension akin to his already there.

They were descending rapidly toward the one land mass on the planet, hidden under an eternal cover of snow and ice, all of it a bleak gray under the dense cloud cover they had just penetrated. Soon Kirk could make out several small buildings, huddled together – probably entrances to underground dwellings and hangars.

He also saw men scurrying out of them and taking cover behind rocks and small, man-made shelters.

"Keep the shuttle out of fire arm range, Mister Scott! Spock, can I communicate with them now?"

"Yes, Captain. A channel is open."

"Miners of Ignis, this is Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation Starship _Enterprise_."

A crackle, then a face appeared on the com screen. An older man, with green eyes keen and sharp in a mass of white facial hair.

"This is Nelson Davis, Commander of Colonist Camp. State your business, Captain Kirk."

Kirk's alarm abated somewhat. Davis had not spoken aggressively. He seemed like a man not prone to rash action.

"We are here on a peaceful mission, Commander. You must know that the situation on Shuria has changed. We come to discuss how best to deal with the new situation. We also come with supplies for your camp and medical care should you need it."

Davis nodded without hesitation. If he was surprised at the news, he didn't show it.

"Very well, Captain, you may land. I will meet you on top."

The communication was severed.

"Bring her in, Mister Scott. _Slowly_."

0000000000

The one report they had on the "Colonists" had been very out of date. Davis had not been mentioned in it. The leadership of the group had been one of the most crucial unknowns on this mission. But after glimpsing the man on the screen, and watching him now, striding toward the shuttle, Kirk already guessed some of his characteristics.

Commander Davis was at least fifteen years his senior. He was a large man, and by the way he moved without trouble through the foot thick snowdrift that their landfall had whipped up, he appeared also very fit, very strong - like all the men Kirk was observing from the shuttle craft ramp.

Kirk fastened the last strap on his jacket. Despite this being a "good day" at Colonist Camp, it was fifteen below zero and there was a brisk, cutting wind. He strode down the ramp holding his breath against the thermal shock, confidently meeting the Commander.

The two shook hands.

"Commander," Kirk said, "I bring a crew of thirteen and a good deal of supplies from your supplier on Starbase Four and from the Federation."

"I will have my men help yours unload," Davis said, glancing behind Kirk. "How long will you be stopping?"

"We'd like to be out of here within ten hours. This is my First and Science Officer, Mister Spock, and behind him, Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy."

After a firm handshake for each, Davis led the trio to a small cubic building. They entered a metal room, Davis manually rolled the outer door shut, then slammed also the inner one. The elevator descended so brusquely the three visitors scrambled for the railing.

"We can't leave anything mechanical exposed 'cause it breaks down in minutes - like the turbo here," Davis explained with gruff humor, and then without a break went on, "So the Shurians have come of age, eh? Let me tell you about my men. There are forty-two of us at the camp and you're going to find us nicely divided on the issue. I'm all for setting the Coming-of-Age procedure in motion, but just as many of us are for keepin' on goin' till the Shurians are capable of interplanetary travel, mining this godforsaken hell hole, and bringing scary enough weapons, if you catch my drift. You'll find my foreman, Rayan Grale, the most outspoken and influential among them. Don't underestimate him."

Before Kirk could question him, the elevator came to an abrupt halt. Davis had not spoken in haste, but he had obviously timed the length of his warning to the length of the ride. The Commander yanked open the doors and they stepped straight into the lion's den.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Davis' account proved to be as accurate as it was succinct.

Kirk could see that the miners respected both Commander Davis and the foreman, Rayan Grale – a must for the group's survival, of course, under these conditions. These two men had earned respect by hard work, keeping their cool under pressure, making the right decisions.

They obviously also relied on each other, but there seemed to be no love lost between them. They were very different personalities with markedly different leadership styles. Davis was the calm and stern, often good-humored father figure. Grale was the loudmouthed rebel rouser who did not shy away from some bullying when it suited him.

Kirk considered that under these harsh conditions and with this kind of rough-and-tumble crew, these two approaches probably complemented more than they conflicted. With some deft delegating, they could be made to cover all the bases.

He didn't have this kind of good cop/bad cop thing going on the _Enterprise_. He smiled a little, considering that perhaps McCoy would make a good bad cop. The landing party would agree, given the extra strenuous physical they had had to pass for this mission.

So Davis was proud and Grale was arrogant, and that worked just fine, here on Ignis. He had read all that in the first two minutes of the heated exchange after he had economically informed the crew of the Shurian situation. And the crew fell apart, almost equally, in two groups, just as Davis had predicted.

Kirk had lit the powder keg and sat back to watch the fireworks, on hand to answer a question or clear up a gross misunderstanding, but careful to remain out of the negotiations. He knew that if he weighed in too much, he'd undermine Davis' authority. And he was confident that that authority would hold out, simply because Davis proposed to do the best thing, "best" meaning "most profitable".

This didn't make the negotiations go any faster. It took hours to find consensus on the profit to be had if they negotiated a good Coming-of-Age contract, and the risks and costs if they didn't.

Kirk kept a close eye on the time. Six hours into the conversation, Spock discretely informed him that the _Enterprise_ crew had done all they could. McCoy had treated some minor ailments and one major medical condition, Geologist Ricks had collected all the necessary samples of ores, and Xiao had taken a battery of meteorological readings. He, Spock, had documented the facilities and mineral holdings.

"Captain," the Vulcan added, keeping his voice low, "the new storm front is arriving sooner than we anticipated. Another two hours and it will be impossible to leave here."

Kirk nodded and Spock retreated. The Captain glanced at his security men, posted well outside the arena but where he could keep an eye on them, and they on him. They seemed antsy to leave. It would _not_ be a good thing to be stuck here for much longer.

The problem was Grale.

As one by one his supporters crossed over to the other side, as the conversation leaned more and more to the question of how to divvy up the settlement with Shuria, Grale stubbornly dug in. He turned up the volume, coaxed, bullied, entrenching himself with the two who were left on his side, Reeve and Stack, not the brightest of the lot.

Kirk had found his nascent admiration for the man replaced by a kind of fascinated pity. Here was a man who had the makings of a great leader, clear-headed, charismatic, strong. But he turned out to be a sore loser.

And he was holding up the final decision. Kirk suspected he too was keeping an eye on the weather. Perhaps he hoped that if Kirk and Davis were stuck in the next storm system, he would have time to bring the others around again. Or time, at least, to sour the whole lot.

Davis called a break. Kirk sought him out.

"Why don't you send him on an errand, isolate him until we're done?" he asked under his breath.

"Keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer, Captain," said Davis with a sad smile.

Kirk could see the disappointment in his eyes.

"It's too bad," Davis continued. "And it also means he'll need to come with us, him and Reeve and Stack. If I leave 'em here they'll undermine my authority and any negotiations will be for naught." He sighed. "I know you are in a hurry, Captain, and so am I. There's a real rotten apple among us, and I'm keen on tossing it."

Kirk nodded. "I'll give them passage to Starbase Four."

Davis gave a curt nod of thanks and they rejoined the table. Grale, who had watched them, instantly took aim at Kirk.

"Mates, can't you see what's happening here? The starship Captain comes in and drives a wedge!" He glared at Kirk. "You wouldn't last a day on this planet, _Captain_, and you dare to come and tell us what to do? I wonder what scrip you've set aside for the Comm-"

"That's enough, Foreman!" Davis cut him off. "_I_ am telling you what to do, and that's shut up and back down. Men, we are in agreement, and those who are not," he glared at Grale and his cronies, "are free to leave. You three have half an hour to pack up. Captain Kirk has agreed to take you to Starbase Four. Collect your back pay, but don't expect a penny of future profits!"

With that, and everyone's silence, Grale's fate was sealed. They all knew it, except for Grale himself. The giant rose and started for Kirk, only to find himself blocked by two security men and one Vulcan.

"I propose you desist," Spock stated coolly, "or I shall be forced to kill you."

His phaser was aimed point blank. The crowded room went dead quiet.

_Maybe Spock would be a better bad cop_, Kirk thought.

Grale stayed where he was and glowered at Kirk.

"Easy when you let others fight your battles for you," he hissed.

Kirk didn't take the bait. He just nodded to Johnson, who prodded his phaser into the giant's side and led him out of the room.

The hubbub started up again as soon as Grale had left.

"We'll be leaving in forty minutes, Mister Spock," Kirk said, not disguising his relief and urgency. "We'll be taking four miners."

Spock raised an eyebrow – they would have to devise two extra seats somehow – but didn't question the Captain. He left to get preparations underway.

Across the room, Davis caught Kirk's eye. The older man was looking at him, sizing him up. Kirk squinted, gave a slow nod of congratulation and, subtly, commiseration. Davis smiled through his beard, then stood and left to make his own preparations.

They were done.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_We're cutting it too damn close_, thought Kirk, punching the lever that closed the back ramp, locking out the blast of ice particles sharp as pulverized glass. He had that feeling in the pit of his stomach which his hunger could not mask.

Hardly reassured by the sound of the engines starting up, he shrugged off his jacket and stuffed it with the others in a closet in the small airlock. Then he stepped through into the main cabin. The airlock closed with an asthmatic hiss behind him.

He leaned into the science section, to the left, where Xiao looked up nervously from his consoles.

"Mister Xiao," Kirk said with an encouraging smile, "what mighty fine weather you meteorologists cook up for us!"

The pale-faced young man grinned, then turned beet red when Kirk added, "I think you should strap in, don't you, Chief?"

"Oh-Yes, Captain!"

Kirk's smile lasted most of his passage through the main cabin. His crew was strapping into padded seats along both sides of the windowless cabin, facing each other across a spacious aisle. Kirk put a hand on a shoulder here, made a small joke there, checked seat belts and morale.

Of Chekov he asked if everything was securely stowed away - flying debris could kill a man under the circumstances they had already experienced, and this flight was promising to be even rougher. McCoy he advised to take an anti-emetic, as the Doctor was already looking like he was going to throw up. The Doctor grumbled that for once he would have preferred the transporter.

At the front of the cabin the Captain stowed the smile and turned up his command. He ignored Grale, Reeve and Stack, but nodded at Security Chief Johnson and his team. The ex-miners weren't under arrest or restrained, aside from their seat belts, so Security had better stay on their toes. Kirk had again surrendered a front seat for the seat behind the pilot, from where he could keep an eye on the group.

He had to turn sideways to squeeze through the narrow opening into the cockpit.

"We're a go for take-off," he reported, seating himself behind Davis, who was the better pilot under these kinds of conditions.

"The shuttle's in good shape, Capt'n," said Scott, sitting behind Spock, who was copiloting. "But I doubt it would have held up without docking 'er in one of the hangars. This weather's a real nasty beastie!"

"Now's the moment then, Gentlemen," said Kirk. "Commander Davis, Mister Spock… take us out."

0000000

They rose steadily, through the horizontally driving ice, with nary a shudder. That lasted for about two minutes. Soon they were being shaken in their seats as engines and buffers fought the howling wind.

Spock had to raise his voice to make himself heard. Altitude: five hundred meters! Exiting the surface of the planetary boundary layer!"

_Only eighteen and a half more kilometers of troposphere to go,_ Kirk thought wryly.

But he knew it was the next three kilometers, the rest of the planetary boundary layer, that would be the most turbulent. He watched Davis masterfully anticipate the currents, negotiating by experience, guess work, and integrating Xiao's real-time data, again relayed over the com.

Still, pilot and craft were pushed to their limits. The rattle soon became unbearable, knocking their teeth against each other, shaking up their innards. A violent lurch made Kirk wish they had head straps as well.

"Pre-essure is fa-aling ra-apidly!" came Xiao's voice. "Eighthu-undred and fi-ifty – sevenhundred and twe-enty mi-illibars! My G-God-_Ca-aptain_!"

Abruptly the shaking stopped. The shrieking of the wind stopped. Kirk gasped.

They hung suspended in a vast, darkened cylinder, bounded on all sides by a black wall of dense, seething cloud.

"Stay in the eye!" Xiao's yelled.

_The eye? What eye..._

Lightening erupted from the nearest wall and grabbed them, blinding, but eerily silent. Through narrowed eyes, shielded by a hand, Kirk glimpsed the white-hot tendrils licking the window shield. But the craft had been built for this, and only the shifting of the air shook the shuttle, almost gently.

"Spock?" Kirk appealed.

"We have entered into the eye of a hurricane, Captain."

"The whole thing is 900 kilometers across," Xiao supplied, thankfully in a calmer voice, "and it came together in the matter of five minutes! The eye is two kilometers in diameter. Avoid the eye wall, Commander Davis!"

Davis was already steering them toward the middle. The lightening fingers let go of them.

"It's hard to tell how stable the structure is," Xiao continued, "but as long as it lasts the eye should remain calm. I am reading sustained winds of 350 kilometers per hour in the wall."

Kirk leaned forward as much as his straps allowed to look up through the shield. He was expecting to see the stars at the end of the tunnel, but of course it wasn't going to be that easy. The cylinder was capped, up there, by a lid of cloud cover, a nest of lightening. Still, if they could ride this tunnel, maybe Ignis would spit them out without ever taking a bite.

"Can we ride it? Up and out?" he asked.

Davis started taking them up.

"Two-thousand-five-hundred meters!" Spock called out. "Two-thousand-eight-hundred. Three-thousand-"

"-It's collapsing! It's collapsing!" Xiao screamed.

Kirk had rarely seen something so awful. The eye wall – a churning mass of vapor and lightening, pressure and wind, suddenly veered and lurched toward them. Davis fought to pull the shuttle away from it, but it was too late. The wall overtook them in a second and swallowed them up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

All hell broke loose.

Visibility was reduced to zero, a lid slammed shut. The screaming of alarms filled the cockpit. Xiao yelled over the com that his systems were down. Then everyone's breath was taken away.

The shuttle was tossed up, propelled at breakneck speed up through the chaos. The buffers couldn't keep up with the acceleration and the crew was crushed into their seats, gasping for breath.

"Hold it, _hold it,_" Davis uttered through clenched teeth. Incredibly, the veteran managed to keep the shuttle's nose in the direction of their upward motion. Shifting painfully in his seat and straining his neck, he checked the console and confirmed their rapid ascent on the ticker.

Three-thousand-eight-hundred, four-thousand, four-thousand-two-hundred…

_Where does it end? Surely we'd be out of it by now!_

But then his gut told him they were slowing, and suddenly it was like someone had slammed the brakes.

"Impulse engines!" Davis called out over the din.

An extra alarm rang out shrilly and Kirk knew what it was.

"Impulse down!" Spock yelled.

Four-thousand- eight-hundred meters.

The shuttle reached its culmination. For a second, the pressure in the cabin returned to normal. It was the apex of the roller coaster, the edge in front of the abyss.

"Port thrust!" Kirk ordered. "Send the distress beacon!"

"Turning!" Davis.

"Beacon failure!" Spock.

"Port thrust failure!" Scott. "Buffer failure!"

Kirk gulped as he became weightless and drifted out of his seat while the shuttle fell away behind him.

Cursing, Davis switched engines, but it was too late. Weightlessness turned to torque and the straps cut into Kirk's left shoulder, the arm rest pressed painfully into his hip, as they were yanked sideways and held there, plummeting, but not nose first. The shuttle had failed to make the turnabout and entered the descent on its starboard side. Another second and it fell into the inevitable, brutal spin.

Davis now yelled a series of curses which Kirk could appreciate. Still, though Kirk couldn't see the pilot's hand movements on the console, he felt the maneuvers. On one engine and no buffers, Davis was actually slowing the spin.

"Beacon status, Spock?" Kirk yelled.

"Failed, Captain, but… Xiao, release the weather probes! Mister Xiao!"

There was no response.

"I've got control!" Davis called out.

Their motion evened. Several alarms stopped ringing and the atmospheric noise lessened. Except for the tremendous pressure of their descent, things in the cockpit became almost bearable again.

"Plot a course, Mister Spock," came Davis's calm, baritone voice, "back to the camp."

"Navigation down, I cannot get a lock. Altitude, three-thousand meters," Spock responded.

Davis cursed. "Let's just put 'er down safely then."

At least their speed, bone-crushing due to the absence of buffers, was an advantage now. High velocity honed the shuttle into a sharp needle plunging straight through the murderous fabric of weather. Currents failed to grab them, to push them off course. They were holding steady.

"Capt'n! What're you _doin_?!" Scott called out.

Kirk had undone his shoulder straps and now unclasped his hip belt. Their motion immediately grabbed him, yanking him up and out of his seat. Holding on to the doorjamb, he let it suck him out of the cockpit, legs first, into the main cabin.

A ladder-like structure ran all along the ceiling of the cabin, and the ceiling was exactly the place where their descent pulled him. Good. His feet struck a rung. He took a breath, let go of the doorjamb with one hand and snatched the first rung.

_Don't let go._

He grabbed the next rung, then the next, moving with the flow. He glimpsed McCoy's horrified face but ignored it. He had reached the back of the cabin in less than a minute.

"Two thousand-three-hundred meters!" Spock warned over the com.

_Hurry._

With the courage of the desperate, Kirk jumped down (though it was, of course, up) into the science section, landing painfully, but on his feet, on the back wall. He looked up (down) at Xiao, who was unconscious in his seat.

"Applying forward thrust now!" Davis yelled over the com, and Kirk could feel the engines roaring, the pressure letting up.

"Two-thousand meters, _Captain!" _Spock yelled over the com, and Kirk knew it was his last chance.

He reached out and got his shaking fingers to within an inch of the probe release button. Yelling with exertion and adrenaline, he _punched_ through, hitting the button.

"Probes released! One-thousand-five-hundred, two-hundred, one-thousand-"

Kirk swallowed.

There was only one chair.

Xiao was in it.

He slowly lowered himself into a crouching position on the back wall. It was less of a strain on his muscles and balance, but it put a lot of pressure on his shoulders and rib cage, and he was already gasping for breath.

_How to do this? How to do this?_

The engines screamed, alarms screamed, his crew screamed.

The pressure released him and he hung for a split second, weightless in the cabin. Then Ignis grabbed him and threw him against the console and all went black.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Captain? Captain Kirk?"

_Scotty, from a great distance. But I feel the pressure of his hand right here, on my arm. Oh, my head._

"Is he alright?"

_Xiao, much closer by now. The fog lifting._

He opened his eyes.

"Ah!" Scott sighed in relief.

Not moving yet, he took stock. He was on the deck in the science section, with his back to the front wall. He must have hit the console when the shuttle lost velocity, then been thrown forward on impact. That's what he felt like, anyway, _thrown around. _It was good to have Scotty there, on a knee beside him, looking worried. Xiao was still strapped into his chair, looking dazed but unharmed.

_Is the deck tilted, or is it me?_

"Stay there, now, lad," Scott said, "and I'll get the Nurse."

_Nurse?_

"McCoy?" Kirk retorted hoarsely, overcoming his paralysis.

"The Doctor is fine, Captain," Scott hurried, putting more pressure on his arm, holding him down, "he's just preoccupied. Now you should stay put-"

But Kirk was sitting up.

_The deck really _is_ tilted. _

"I'm fine," he grunted. "And you? And you, Chief?"

Each man assured him they were okay.

"Good, good. Scotty, help me up." He staggered to his feet. His head swam, his ears rang, his whole body hurt, and there was a sharp pain in his side. But those sensations fled as he barked out:

"Status!"

"We landed pretty well, considerin'," Scott began, hurrying after him, "but she's down for good, Capt'n. The cockpit's crushed. Commander Davis is dead. And Mister Spock…"

Kirk was already in the main cabin, assessing his crew as he made his way to the front – a little uncertainly at first, as the shuttle was heeling about 10 degrees to port. He concluded he couldn't have been out for more than a few minutes. Like Xiao, most men were still strapped in, shaking their heads, getting their bearings.

Near the front, Chang was attending to Ricks, who was lying on the deck, out cold.

"He seems okay, Captain," the Nurse informed him, "broken collarbone, concussion."

Kirk nodded, and nodded again to Johnson in acknowledgment of the Security Chief's alert attention to the miners, still in their seats. He looked at each of them merely in passing. They seemed unhurt.

_Davis is dead…_

_Deal with them later._

It was much colder near the front, and the sound of the howling wind was ominous. The bulkhead and the doorway to the cockpit were warped. Kirk stuck his head through, squinting against the onslaught of windblown ice, gasping in the freezing cold.

The pilot side of the cockpit had been the point of impact. The window shield was smashed, leaving the small space open to the raging storm. The buckling hull had driven the console into the pilot seat and crushed it into the seat behind and on into the bulkhead, behind which Ricks had sat.

Commander Davis was still in the seat. His lower body was crushed into the mangled mess. His torso was severed at the waist but, grotesquely, the shoulder straps held it up. His gray head hung down, chin to chest. Blood spilled, staining red the snow between his hands, still on the controls.

Kirk looked away. He looked away at Spock, who was being lifted out of his seat by McCoy and Argyle.

Green blood trickled from the Vulcan's mouth and ear. He was unconscious.

"A fragment of window shield struck him in the head, Capt'n. I saw it happen," said Scott, behind him.

McCoy looked up. "Jim! You're alive! Good, help us get Spock out."

Kirk leaned in and tenderly held Spock's head while they lowered the lifeless body onto a collapsible stretcher. Kirk and Scott lifted it out into the main cabin, then McCoy and Argyle squeezed out of the cockpit, shivering.

"Scotty," Kirk said, "make sure McCoy has what he needs."

"Aye, Sir. We'll set up an infirmary in the cargo bay."

Kirk watched them go. He had to force himself to stay put.

_One dead, two injured._

He had to deal with Davis' body. He had to check what in the shuttle was still operable and if he could determine their position, send a message. He had to find out how much power they had – life support was certainly still operable in the main cabin, but for how long? He had to see how much of the hull was breached. He had to close off the cockpit, which was leaking heat into the storm. And check if the two science pods had launched, and at which altitude. And organize the main cabin. Inform and contain the miners.

His shaken crew was assembling behind him, waiting for his orders.

"Chekov, check whether the auxiliary console in the main cabin works. If it does, start running a full diagnostic. Fry, Irving, find two more of those walls and do what you can to weld the windows shut."

The men moved away, glad for something to do.

Kirk turned to the miners. They knew, by now, that Davis was dead. Reeve and Stack looked stricken. Grale, however, was looking up at Kirk with cold interest. Kirk had felt his cunning gaze on him since he had entered the main cabin. He quickly checked himself.

_Have I shown my pain, my concern for Spock? Do I hope for their good will and ask for their help? Or do I assume their opposition and contain them? _

It was a split second decision – to have taken any longer would have been interpreted, and rightly so, as weakness.

"Commander Davis died saving our lives, and yours," he said to Grale, ignoring the other two. "I don't care what your disagreement with him was. You will cooperate so that his death will not be in vain."

Kirk was aware of Reeve and Stack's consideration of his words, but he did not release Grale's eyes. For his part, the man could just as well not have heard him. Kirk knew he would not back down. No matter.He knew he would not, either.

"Any trouble from you" – and here he broke eye contact to including Reeve and Stack in a withering glance – "and I will have you in chains."

Johnson, who had given Kirk and the miners some space but had overheard the Captain's quiet words, overcame the fear that had threatened to overwhelm even him, solid and seasoned. Chekov, at the console a bit further up, furtively watched the Captain face, pale but resolute and firm, and smiled.

They knew, Captain Kirk would pull them through.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Body bags. What few amenities they had, body bags were among them.

_Behind every irony there is a tragedy_, Kirk remembered his literature professor saying. The tragedy was not lost on him.

Fry helped him put Commander Davis' remains into the bag. The job was gruesome and taxing in the bitter cold. Kirk decided to keep the body in the cockpit. The sight of it would be too demoralizing to the crew, and anyway there was no other place where they could store it.

In the meantime Irving confirmed their suspicion that none of the cockpit consoles were operational. It didn't matter, the auxiliary one in the main cabin still worked.

Worse was the news that it would be impossible to block the windows with what they had available. They would have to close off the cockpit doorway instead. Kirk would have preferred to keep the space available.

The notion of a brig wasn't far from his mind.

He stepped outside to let the men strip the cockpit of anything they might need and that would come loose: seats, fabrics, panels, bolts, electronics. Then he sent them into the main cabin and plunged, for one last time, into the frigid room.

Shivering in his blood-smeared coat, his fingers numb despite the gloves, he went down on one knee by Davis' body. The form in the bag was misshapen, too small for what was once a strong, proud body. There were no animals on Ignis, nothing but the weather to get into the cockpit and vandalize it. It seemed wrong.

And there was no other option. Kirk apologized, rose stiffly and squeezed out of the space. Irving lit the welding torch.

Chekov and Lasky were querying the main cabin's auxiliary control. Kirk walked over, still unaccustomed to the slanting floor. Luckily the deck was the metal grille type that offered plenty of grip on wet boots.

"Life support status," he said, quickly pulling off his blood-soaked gloves and jacket and bundling them under his arm.

"The primary energy coil took a hit, Keptin," said Chekov, "but it is holding up. The secondary coil is not damaged. There is enough to keep life support working. Temperature and oxygen and synthesizers are fully operational. We don't have a lot of water on board, but there is enough of it outside that we can melt."

"We won't be using the large cargo bay door. The small back ramp still works?"

"Yes, Keptin, though I wouldn't open it at the moment. It is a Russian minus 25 out there, and sinking."

"Tell me about it," Kirk muttered, painfully aware of the tingling in his frozen fingers.

"We're not equipped for this kind of weather, Capt'n," came Scott's voice, behind him. "Most of our gear is for underground work, inside hangars. Any heavy gear we had we left at the camp. And as for other provisions, we-"

"-Gentlemen, I think we just found our quartermaster!" Kirk interrupted the older man with a smile. "How about it, Scotty?"

Scott snapped his mouth shut, blushing. He could tell, from Kirk's quick glance, that under the banter the Captain was dead serious. Keeping up morale would be their biggest challenge, and he had spoken out of turn.

Kirk gently took Scott's arm and the two took a few steps away from Chekov and Lasky, who were engrossed in the console.

"Sorry, Capt'n," the Engineer murmured, for Kirk's ears only.

"No need to apologize, Scotty. Quartermaster may turn out to be the most important job of all on this boat," Kirk commiserated under his breath.

For a moment the two men stared at each other, each acknowledging the unspoken worry.

0000000

Scott's team had done wonders with Sickbay. But for some boxes and drums with mineral samples and cargo-related equipment, the rectangular cargo bay had been empty. They had used a heavy fabric to curtain off a narrow examination space nearest to the door. Behind the curtain were two spaces. To the left, a recovery area with two improvised bunks. To the right, an equally improvised operation room. They had hooked up all the medical equipment that was available and with Xiao's help had brought over and converted some of the scientific gear into medical monitors.

One of those monitors was displaying Spock's sluggish heartbeat. The Vulcan was unconscious on one of the beds, deathly white.

Kirk forced himself to concentrate on the hushed voices coming from the operation section. McCoy and Chang were operating on Ricks, who was experiencing complications. Then he noticed the silence behind him. The crew had gone quiet, out of respect for the Geologist's struggle, out of anxiety for their own plight.

He knew he would have to break that mood. He looked one more time at the Vulcan.

_At least there are no other injuries. _

_It could have been worse._

_It can always be worse, can it?_

He turned back into the main cabin and told Scott to organize a team to examine the hull for any breaches and to try to get a better assessment of the primary energy coil, all from within the shuttle, as the storm was still raging. A low murmur started up again, tricorders started whirring and data was soon being called out.

Kirk turned left into the science section.

"Chief Xiao, Chekov, any news?"

Xiao, upon seeing him, suddenly looked like he might break down.

"Captain, I-I am sorry. I should have been able to launch them, but-"

"-Chief," Kirk gently cut him off, laying a firm hand on the young man's shoulder, "the pressure in the aft section was much higher than in the rest of the shuttle. Anyone would have lost consciousness here. I'll only hold it against you if you blame yourself for something you couldn't control and thereby reduce your contribution to our job here, which is survival. You hear, Chief?"

"Yes, Sir," Xiao replied, visibly pulling himself together again. "Thank you, Captain."

"Now tell me, the probes."

"It is hard to say, Sir," Xiao said. "Mister Spock was right to want to deploy them. Just like the emergency beacon, weather probes take up geosynchronous positions, thereby marking the point of launch. But unlike the beacon, which takes up position in the exosphere, the weather probes settle in the tropopause. That region was extremely agitated, Captain. And so was the distance they had to travel to get there. It is hard to know whether they kept the trajectory and, if they did make it, whether they also stayed in position."

Kirk nodded. "And our position, Mister Chekov?"

Chekov shook his head. "We've not been able to determine it, Keptin. The navigation system broke down in our flight, and our sensor capability is minimal. The good news is that the storm is lessening. I will be able to take a reading of the moons and the Shuria Sun."

"A reading?"

"The old-fashioned way, Keptin."

"You can do that, Mister Chekov?"

Chekov visibly straightened.

"Yes, Sir! I am constructing the sextant right his moment."

"Good, I'll come with you. You can teach me."

"I'd be honored, Keptin!"

Kirk smiled. He had refrained from calling a meeting to discuss their situation because their next actions depended on their position. Now the men were getting anxious for more than small household decisions. Some of his orders were getting a little too trivial.

"Call me as soon as we can do it, Mister Chekov. It's a priority."

Kirk wondered how cold it was out there.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_How cold?_ How cold?_ Minus 30, that's how bloody cold! _

The storm and its blanket of clouds had been blown away, leaving their tiny portion of the planet surface open to the freezing sky. The dazzling, blinding sunlight made no difference. It struck his face – the only uncovered part of his body – but he felt no heat from it.

_It could be worse. At least there's no wind. _

He had donned two jackets, two pairs of gloves, two pairs of socks. Still the cold cut him to the bone. The hard work of shoveling a path through the powdery snow to the small incline where Chekov wanted to take his readings hadn't helped. It had warmed him up, yes, but sucking in the freezing air had been a shock that would not let up. His toes had been the first to go numb, and soon after that his fingers in the wet, frozen gloves. When the work was done, the sweat froze almost instantly to his back and he had started to shiver.

As soon as the path was dug he had sent the other men back inside. It was just Chekov and him on the tiny snow hill, some hundred meters away from the shuttle. Squinting, he followed the ribbon of the path to the hole at the end. No sight of the shuttle. It was entirely snowed in and they had had to dig a tunnel to the surface.

He looked up.

A moment of panic. A cosmic sky, enormously _wide_. It threatened to suck him up, blast him into space.

He swallowed and cursed, shivering, the muscles in his arms and shoulders shaking with exertion as he held up the heavy sextant up for the Russian. He was aware again of the pain in his side. Having nothing else to do here but stand, waiting, nothing to distract his thoughts or his body, it was quickly becoming unbearable.

"Hold it steady, please, Keptin!" Chekov said in his high voice. The Russian didn't seem the least put out by the cold. There was nary a shiver on him!

Kirk clenched his jaw. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Strange, how well his voice carried in this eerie silence, this nothingness. It was all just _sight_ now, which made it even stranger, because all there was of sight was whiteness and brightness. His face hurt from squinting so hard. His head hurt and he was getting dizzy - but then he also hadn't eaten since a quick bite during the negotiations at the camp. A shower of black spots traversed his vision. The pain in his side became a stab.

_Either I'm gonna pass out or throw up_.

Concentrating hard, he scoured the landscape of nothingness for dark spots. But the snowblasted sastrugi cast no shadows, nor did the pressure ridges, or the three foot walls of the path they had cut. Even the massive mountains rising out of the crevassed plain at a distance hard to estimate – five clicks? – were fully lit, blasting him. The only shadow was deep in the hole that led to the shuttle.

Again, the tug of the sky.

"Got it!" Chekov cheered.

Kirk almost dropped the heavy tool. Chekov walked over and took it from him. They started back right away, Chekov first. Kirk was glad for the hard-won path now. An hour ago it had been so powdery and slick they had sunk down into the snow up to their waists, which had necessitated the path in the first place. Now the snow bore a hard crust on which his hands found much needed support.

Then, down into the grave.

He stumbled into the airlock. Chekov caught his arm, pretended it was nothing.

They closed the small ramp and opened the hatch to the back corridor. Kirk welcomed the warmth. Then, within a minute, he rushed to shed his extra layers. The cold had been bad, but the sudden temperature change was just as brutal. He was seeing spots again, white ones this time, and the acid bile rose to his throat. He steadied himself against the bulkhead.

"Are you okay, Keptin? You'll go see Doctor McCoy?" Chekov asked, almost apologetically.

Kirk cursed inwardly. The young man must have noticed his distress all along, and now he had even felt it necessary to express his concern.

"Yeah," he joked, standing straight. "Knowing McCoy, he probably has some brandy! Are _you_ alright?"

Chekov smiled broadly. "It's like home, Keptin!"

"If you say so, Pavel," Kirk said, mimicking Chekov's smile, but knowing his smile wasn't reaching his eyes. "Run your computations, Mister Chekov. We'll convene as soon as you have our position."

As he waited for Chekov to leave he desperately tried to think of a place on the shuttle where he could have some privacy to pull himself together, to throw up so he could reset his body. There were two lavatories...

But Chekov wasn't moving. He purposely waited for Kirk to step out into the narrow corridor first. The Captain had no choice but to turn right, into "Sick Bay".

000000000

"You got some brandy, Bones?"

"Jim! I just had Fry and Argyle in here!" McCoy exploded, barely keeping his voice down. "What were you thinking sending them out there? Argyle's toes and fingers have first degree frostbite, and Fry came very near to being snow blind! We just don't have the equipment to protect us, Jim, we-"

McCoy ground to a halt. Kirk was just standing there. The Doctor, exhausted even though he had stolen a short nap after Rick's operation, noticed for the first time how sickly pale the Captain was. The man was even gripping the edge of the desk.

"How long were _you_ out there, Jim? And when was the last time you slept? Or ate?" the Doctor demanded.

He regretted the unintended tone of frustration – but he was so damn tired himself – when Kirk looked him in the eye with a vulnerability he rarely showed. There was a great sadness there, a disappointment.

_In me?_ McCoy thought, his alarm mounting.

"You've not slept," he concluded softly, wanting to make peace, "since the crash-no, since your last off-duty on the _Enterprise_. And you haven't eaten. And you were out there all this time."

"Yeah," Kirk sighed.

As if that were all, he started to turn away.

McCoy couldn't believe his eyes. A panic gripped him.

"Hold it!" he ordered, softly but also as commanding as he had ever spoken.

Kirk stopped in his tracks.

McCoy did what he should have done the moment Jim Kirk stepped into his Sick Bay. He looked at the man, not the Captain. He noticed the clenched fists around mottled fingers, the minute shivering, the stiff, off-balance posture. He swept the sensor over the slumped shoulders, down the back underneath the drenched shirt.

What he saw alarmed him. But worst of all, he got no protest.

"I couldn't strap in," Kirk explained quietly. "I hit the console on impact. I was unconscious for a short while. I feel like throwing up."

"That's the body's reaction to extreme pain and exhaustion," the Doctor grumbled, dragging a chair over. "Sit down, Jim." He knew he had to take care to keep his anger, fear, and pity out of his voice.

Kirk hesitated, glanced at the curtain.

_That man'll be the death of me_, McCoy thought, annoyance grating upon affection.

"Chang's guarding it. No one's gonna walk in on us. Sit down, _please Jim_."

Kirk gingerly sat down, possibly for the first time in 20 hours. He allowed McCoy to pull up the sodden gold command shirt, then peel away the black undershirt.

The Doctor couldn't believe it. The purple, blue and green bruise on the Captain's right side extended from the tenth rib up to the collarbone, from the sternum to the back.

How had Kirk concealed this kind of injury? How had he been physically able to manage this disaster, organize their lifeboat, shovel a path though three feet of heavy snow, brave that cold? How was he even functioning at all?

McCoy suddenly realized what it meant for Spock to be out of action.

He ran his scanner and his fingers, very gently, over each rib.

"Well, you're lucky. Looks bad, but it's mostly just bruised, except for two small fractures. I'll tape those ribs. Let me get Chang."

"_No_," Kirk said firmly, starting to rise from his chair in alarm. It drained his face of what color was left. He sat back, wincing. "No, Bones," he repeated through clenched teeth.

McCoy could see he was going to waste both their precious energy and it wouldn't make a difference, except perhaps make the Captain walk out without accepting any treatment at all.

"Alright, alright," he muttered. He walked to the sideboard, picked up a pair of scissors, hesitated. "Am I right assuming that you didn't bring a change of shirt, Jim?"

Despite the difficulty he was in, Kirk smiled.

McCoy put the scissors down again. "Let's take them off, then. Gently does it."

Kirk gritted his teeth as they carefully removed the shirts. McCoy kept a close eye on the Captain's face, bone white and beaded with sweat. He began shivering almost uncontrollably as soon as he was bare-chested. McCoy quickly draped a blanket over his shoulders and upped the cargo hold's temperature.

Then he pulled over a chair for himself and the wheeled table with what he needed. He kicked down the brake on the wheels, so the damn thing wouldn't roll on the slanting floor. He reached for a hypo.

Kirk caught his hand.

"Wha-? It's a painkiller, Jim!"

"How many doses do you have left, Doctor?" Kirk whispered. "Forty? Thirty?"

"Well," McCoy began. They had gone through a lot of the painkiller in the past twenty hours, as there had been a lot of minor injuries. "Thirty, perhaps?"

"And you need them for Spock and Ricks and- I'll be alright, Bones, save your medicine."

"But we'll be out of here in a day or so, Jim!" McCoy blurted out.

Kirk's eyes on him were hard and stern. McCoy was grateful he didn't share what he was thinking.

"Alright," the Doctor gave in. "Let's lift your arm up, rest it here, on my shoulder."

Kirk groaned as McCoy raised Kirk's right arm, but it was the last sound out of him throughout the painful procedure. The Doctor taped the ribs, bandaged the chest for extra support. When he was done he gently lowered Kirk's arm, then straightened.

He found Kirk in an eerie, open-eyed trance, the pain barely controlled behind unfocused pupils. McCoy gave him a moment, holding his shoulder, afraid he might fall off the chair.

Kirk groped for consciousness, focused.

"Better now?" McCoy asked.

Kirk nodded.

"I don't see why help shouldn't come soon, Jim," McCoy tried gently.

Kirk regarded him with such unfathomable sadness, McCoy had to look away.

"If you'll help me into my uniform, Bones," said the Captain after a second. "Chekov must have our position by now."

In turmoil, if not horror, McCoy helped Kirk dress. The Captain rose painfully and his steps to the curtain were uncertain, but then again, McCoy still wasn't used to the tilting floor either.

Kirk stopped, turned and looked at the closed curtain behind the Doctor.

"Ricks?"

McCoy shook his head. "I don't know, Jim. He's still critical."

"Spock?"

"A severe concussion. No bleeding in the brain as far as I can tell, but then the brain scanner is rigged. He's in a regenerative coma. He's on his own."

Kirk nodded. He straightened, composed his face to one of calm determination. He parted the curtain. When he passed through into the main cabin, all those who were not resting looked up and were reassured by their Captain's poise.

"Keptin?" Chekov had risen from a crate where he had been sitting, waiting. "I have our coordinates."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Everyone, except for the three miners, who remained sitting along the wall under the watchful eye of Lieutenant Johnson, began pulling crates and other improvised seats into a rough oval in the middle of the main cabin.

Kirk, Chekov and Xiao consulted in hushed tones in the corner. Xiao and Chekov wore their distress plainly on their faces. Kirk's dispassionate expression was less easy to read.

"You can sit down on this, Doctor," Scott offered.

"Tha-anks, Scotty," McCoy drawled, not taking his eyes off the trio.

"Aye, he needs a rest," Scotty murmured. "And he will rest, Doctor, after this."

Surprised, McCoy looked at Scott. Of course, Scotty was the closest to a second in command Kirk had on this boat. The Engineer was dutiful and observant. More so than McCoy had been. The Doctor made a face and poked at the offered seat. It was a lumpy cargo bag filled with cloth. He sat down.

The oval closed. Kirk remained standing at its apex.

"Gentlemen," he began, a grave smile on his lips. "We find ourselves in a pickle, as the old saying goes. Nowhere we've not been before…"

Gentle laughter.

"Now Mister Chekov and Mister Xiao have made it possible for us to see our way forward. They have computed our location. Mister Chekov?"

"Thank you, Keptin," said the Russian.

McCoy had to give it to Chekov. However bad his news, the man plunged in with full enthusiasm. He spread a large print onto the deck. McCoy, with the others, leaned forward. It was a map of the polar region of Ignis, delineating the sole landmass on the planet. The density of contour lines indicated steep mountains and massive vales. There was one large, red mark on it.

"This," Chekov said, indicating the mark, "is the Mining Camp from where we took off. _This_—" with a flourish he drew another red mark on the map – " is our present position."

"My God," murmured Geologist Argyle.

McCoy frowned. He didn't understand and he wasn't the only one. The room filled with a deep murmur.

"What-what does it mean, Captain?" asked Chang.

All looked at Kirk.

"It means," Kirk said softly, "that we are on the other side of the continent, and not even _on_ the continent."

"You mean," McCoy blurted out, "you mean we crashed in—in—"

"-In the ocean!"

Everyone turned to the one who had spoken. Grale. The bastard was standing up, looking at them, _grinning_.

"Yes," Grale continued victoriously, "all that separates you from miles of cold, dark water is a thin layer of ice."

Johnson stepped in front of Grale and shoved him down into his seat. But it was too late. McCoy broke out into a sweat. Suddenly the shuttle, already tilted, seemed to him to be sliding.

Young Xiao leapt up. "It's not a _thin_ layer at all!" he exclaimed with defiant incredulity. "The ice cap is thick and stable! We'll be just fine!"

The kid even laughed, which made McCoy smile too. The deck seemed to level itself out a little.

Kirk was right on cue.

"The trouble is not what's beneath us, gentlemen, but what's _between_ us, between us and the only place on this planet that is inhabited and known to rescuers. One hundred and sixty miles, as the crow flies." He directed everyone's attention back to the map. "And in between, two mountain ranges. We do not have the equipment to traverse this, even in good weather. And Chief Xiao will confirm what we know of experience: the weather will never be good."

"So they will come to us, Captain?" Fry put in.

"Yes, Mister Fry. Chief Xiao?"

Xiao told them about the failed emergency beacon and the less than great likelihood that the two weather probes had been launched on time.

"So!" Kirk concluded firmly, and he even clapped his hands to shake them all out of their bewilderment. "It is simple. If the probes made it and _are_ up there, marking our position, the _Enterprise _will have picked up their signals by now. They cannot, however, mount a rescue with the shuttles that are aboard. They will have to return to Star Base Four and collect another cargo lugger like the _Audubon_. The round trip will take them twelve days. We can safely assume that they are already on their way or will be shortly.

"And if the probes _aren't_ up there, Capt'n?" Scotty asked.

Kirk didn't waver.

"Then the _Enterprise _will still go to Starbase Four to pick up a shuttle. Upon their return they will just have to find us first."

"How would they spot us, Sir?" asked Argyle. "We're snowed in!"

Kirk smiled.

"We'll just have to make ourselves very, very visible, won't we, Sam? It would be good to have an enormous billboard even if the weather probes did make it. Now, we saw what this planet can throw at us, so any kind of time line after twelve days will depend on the weather. There are regularities, planetary climatological habits, Chief Geologist Xiao assures me, but then there is also good luck, and bad luck, and _patience_."

He let this sink in a little. The men murmured among themselves. Scott was the first to raise his voice.

"So, Capt'n, this means we will be here for at least twelve days and, very possibly, longer."

"Yes. _So_" – again, that energizing resolve –" _quartermaster_," - and the smile - "I want a full inventory of our provisions, energy capability, and needs. Mister Chekov, find out what we have for a billboard, then lead a team to build it. We'll have to keep it visible too, and we'll also have to keep any more snow off the shuttle – the present layer is good insulation, but more would make it hard for us to get out. That means, gentlemen, that seeing as we have no gym among our facilities, we'll get our work out outside, when conditions permit. For that purpose, Mister Argyle, please lead a team to make better cold weather gear: we need better gloves and protection, goggles against the glare and some sort of crampons for our boots. Lieutenant Irving, you and your men rearrange the main cabin into two areas, one a sleeping area with enough bunks for half the crew to sleep on. From now on we'll have alpha and beta shifts, to overlap twice a day in the second area, the common room. Mister Xiao, make up a schedule."

The cabin erupted with plans and proposals.

McCoy could see Kirk making a move to add something else, possibly a rousing ode to his great crew and their unquestionable ability to conquer any calamity. But the Captain was distracted by something. It didn't matter to the men, who had already moved on to their tasks.

McCoy stood on tiptoe and followed Kirk's gaze. At the end of it was Grale. The two men were locked in a battle of looks that the Doctor would not have liked to be the recipient of, on eitherside. He was relieved when a question from Xiao pulled Kirk out of it. McCoy looked at Grale one last time. The man's sneering face made his heart sink.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**Day 11**

Rayan Grale was paying close attention to Kirk. He had kept an eye on him since the negotiations at Camp, but the crash had thrown the Captain into much sharper contrast. He was strong, that one, and he had spun his crew into a tight-knit fabric that would be hard to wear out.

Grale had tested it, at that first general meeting. The grenade he had thrown into the circle had been disarmed almost instantly. It had been genius to let the little Meteorologist take up the challenge, to let the two youngest of the crew bring the bad news in their transparent, almost lighthearted ways.

The miner suspected that in ten years' time the Captain would grow into the leadership style of a Davis. Right now he wasn't old enough to be a father figure, but he already built his authority on the basis of accessibility, fairness, self-sacrifice, praise for his men and encouragement in case of failure, and that terribly easy, almost physical charm.

Grale had never had charm. Grale hated charm. He didn't make the mistake of thinking that that was all that Kirk was about. He did recognize the characteristics they had in common: a keen intuition, great strength of will and physical endurance, insight in people and how to manipulate them, courage. But he hated James Kirk, the golden boy in his blood-stained, golden command shirt.

And he hated the way Kirk's men were devoted to their Captain. They reveled in demonstrating that they were worthy of his commendation. Even slop duty, the rotten task of drying out the gear, checking its state, mending it if necessary, and storing it after its use, which involved ice and sweat-encrusted, rough fabric, the sharp edges of goggles coming apart, and stinky boots and socks, was taken up with verve. Not for profit, but for the reward of a job well done and their Captain's gentle gratitude.

But how long could that last?

Grale knew that they were in for a long wait. For now they were still relatively comfortable and the promise of rescue was as yet untainted by grimmer realities. No doubt Kirk had been grappling with those realities since the very beginning of this crisis, even as he was deftly holding them off for his men.

And therein lay Kirk's vulnerability, and thus that of his crew.

For, though Kirk welcomed his crew's initiative, he in fact made himself solely responsible for every decision. He took care to be present to every act. He was always there to shore up spirits, comfort, joke around. He hardly slept, often ran two shifts. He was out with the snow shoveling crew more than anyone else. The men would come in hot and tired after the hard work, but they would be laughing. The Captain's smile grew progressively more strained.

There was more to it than his physical difficulty – he had been injured, Grale knew that, and knew also that he was one of two or three who knew it. No, it was that everything was always on the brink of falling apart and that everything depended on Kirk. That Kirk stood alone. His crew may have thought the exact opposite, that he was close to them, but therein most of them were skillfully deceived.

Only the older Engineer seemed to grasp this and was doing what he could – what Kirk allowed him to do - to support the Captain. But Grale could see that Scott was not sufficient. He could spot it each time Kirk emerged from Sick Bay.

It was the two men in that room who should have been Kirk's mainstay, and weren't.

The Vulcan was no doubt Kirk's first compass, but he was in a coma and thus, like a compass, useless here at the very pole of the planet.

Then there was McCoy. Grale hadn't quite figured it out yet, but he had the feeling that all was not well between the Captain and the CMO and that their strained relationship was a drain on the Captain's strength.

So, ironically, it was Kirk's exceptional leadership that made _him_ the weak spot in the group.

Kirk knew it too, of course, and he was always guarded, especially when Grale was present. But his strength was wavering. Soon Grale would hit home, where it would hurt. Not yet, but soon.

Now, did Grale want that? He knew he and his men depended on this group, on this man, to survive. But something had snapped in him when the others at Camp had deserted him, when Davis banished him like a common criminal and stole his hard-earned future profits. He simply could not bring himself to pull the strong fabric of this crew around him like a mantle.

Also, all would not be lost if he grasped the fraying part and, starting there, tore it to shreds. On the contrary, perhaps...

They were eleven days into the crash. Grale knew he would not have to wait for very long.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

**Day 12**

"Argyle! Where's the Captain?"

"Well, hello to you too, Doctor McCoy. He's outside shoveling. It snowed a lot. It's clear now but darn cold and-"

"-How long has he been out there?" McCoy barked.

"Since the beginning of beta shift. He-"

McCoy had already stomped off, fuming over something.

"You'll need goggles if you go out there!" Argyle called after the Doctor.

He shook his head. McCoy had always been a grumpy fellow, but his behavior here on Ignis had cemented his reputation as somewhat of an ogre. Not even the Captain was spared his bad temper!

McCoy _was_ fuming.

Like him, Jim was alpha shift.

Alpha shift was just beginning.

He threw on one of the stiff reinforced jackets the gear team had put together, as well as padded gloves and studded boots, and snapped on the goggles. There was no night where there were, on Ignis. It was always day and, when clear, so relentlessly bright it could blind a person within minutes.

He closed the airlock, shouldered the hatch and stepped into the steep and narrow tunnel. The tunnel seemed to get longer with each passing day and McCoy didn't like it. It felt to him like they were sliding deeper into the ice. Closer to the black, cold, fathomless ocean.

He slammed he hatch shut behind him and hurried up to the surface. Stood, for a moment, in spite of the goggles, _dazzled_.

This white, white world.

He had seen alien worlds, with atmospheres saturated with colors you couldn't even have imagined, or so distorted in their dimensions you felt like they would squeeze the volume out of you. But not this, this empty world, with its cold white ground and cold white sky and cold white mountains in the distance.

A place in which you had to concentrate on _being there_ and say to yourself, _I am here, I exist. Look, there's my glove, my boot, all gray and black against the whiteness. And inside the glove and the boot _are_ my hand, my foot…_

He was pulled out of his absorption by a yell of alarm.

He turned and there was The Billboard, a massive arrow made from cargo partition walls, painted black. Pointing straight at McCoy.

_We are here! You can't see us but we are here!_

And beyond that, a field of snow trodden to slush, and in that mess, beta shift in turmoil. Kicking something around.

A ball!

The Captain was with them, alright. He was easy to spot. They had made a special jacket for him, bright red and also the warmest and most windproof. His hood was up, and he was the only one on the sidelines. He was cheering for someone through the funnel of his hands, hard to tell who, running the ball through the muddle of moving, yelling crew.

How could they even tell who was on whose side? Everyone was sliding and skidding, shouting encouragement and curses. Then the runner faced the goalie – McCoy presumed – swung a leg for an almighty kick and… slipped and crashed onto his side into the snow. The ball, which wasn't even all that round, stayed pathetically where it was.

Everyone collapsed with laughter.

Kirk too bent over with laughter. Then he straightened and saw the Doctor, who was approaching fast, juggernaut-like.

"Okay, men!" he shouted, joy ringing clear in his voice. "Shift's over. Get dry and get some hot tea into you! We'll do a rematch next shift!"

"_Next shift_, Jim?" McCoy bit, grabbing the Captain by the arm.

Kirk's joy chilled on his face.

"Let go of my arm, Doctor," he warned under his breath.

The men were filing past them, panting and snickering.

McCoy withdrew his hand, but not his anger.

"Let's walk, Captain," he said through clenched teeth.

"I don't know what you have to be upset about, Bones," Kirk started when they were our of earshot. "It helps them keep their minds off our trouble, tires them out, makes them go to bed happy and exhausted, and they sleep through, like bricks."

"It's not about _them,_ Jim! It's _you_. Why can't you let up? For a moment admit you're human like the rest of us, and tired out, and worried-stop taking care of us and let us take care of you!"

Even padded in the thick coat, his hood throwing most of his face into shadow, Kirk's body language was loud and clear.

He was furious.

"What do you want from me, Bones?" he snarled with such vehemence that McCoy actually took a step back. "Do you want me to come to you with my doubts and my fears? Can you _handle_ them? You think you're stronger than them? No, you _need_ me to the perfect leader, but you can't stand to see the other side of it, to see what it does to a person, to a _friend, and feel responsible for it_. So you bitch about it either way. Well, tough luck! It's my choice, my job. _You're_ off the hook. Just stop dragging me down!"

He spun around and marched back to the shuttle.

McCoy stood frozen. His shock would have been less if Kirk had hit him square in the face. And that was before he even realized what had just been said. That took him a few seconds, and then he felt the blood pour into his face.

_Is he right?_

McCoy shook his head. He didn't want to think about it. Not here, the only one left, now, under the soul-sucking sky. Not inside the stifling shuttle, either, cooped up with sixteen other men, one of whom close to death, under his care.

And to be honest he liked his little hot ball of anger. It comforted him – yes, he would admit it – because it prevented him from thinking about what Kirk had just said.

He went in, passed his gear to Lasky, who was on slop duty. He endured the shock of entering the main cabin after some time out in the fresh Ignis air. Due to lack of space and ventilation, and because in the interest of conserving energy each man took a bucket bath every four days, the heat and smell in the cabin were something to get used to.

Most beta shifters were already in the bunks. Others were hurriedly grabbing a bite to eat, trying to make the freshly wakened alphas understand what had been so funny out there.

The Captain wasn't among them.

McCoy pushed through the curtains into Recovery. Kirk was sitting at Spock's side.

"Why hasn't he woken up yet, Bones?"

McCoy sighed.

"It's possible he's in more of a… a preservative coma than a restorative one. He might not have the strength to heal himself, and God knows there is precious little I can do to support him. Fluids, intravenous feeding, that's it."

"How long can you keep it up?"

"_Me_? Oh, you mean, supply-wise. Another month or so, if no one else gets seriously injured. Listen, Jim, there won't be a bunk for you in the main cabin. I'm on duty and I think Scotty and I can hold the fort for a while. Why don't you sleep in the medic bed here in Sick Bay?"

Kirk nodded and stood. But he did not look the Doctor in the eye.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**Day 16**

The mood had shifted. Presumably the _Enterprise_ was back and had been for some time now. Yet the last twelve hours had brought fair weather and no rescue had come. They all knew what that meant. The probes that the Captain had risked his life to launch and that, ironically, had also drawn him away from certain death, had not made it. The easy waiting was over. From now on what waiting they had to do would only come grudgingly.

And into that, enter the miners.

From the beginning Grale and his men had refused to do any work. They took neither slop duty nor went out to rebuild or clear The Billboard. They neither cooked nor washed up. The three of them had made for themselves a cozy corner, where they talked in undertones, played card games, snored.

When they weren't flaunting their laziness, they laced the tight atmosphere with contemptuous comments and hostile body language, and generally did anything in their power to disrupt the daily routine that life now depended on.

They were all three in it, but Grale delegated the goading of the crew to Reeve and Stack while he focused on the Captain. Nothing outright subversive, but Kirk felt the man's cold, calculating eyes constantly on him, the constant sneer when he spoke.

Kirk had briefly considered splitting them up by putting them in different corners of the cabin. He had decided not to. It would be an admission of powerlessness, playing the kindergarten teacher splitting up three ill-behaved kids. The next day the kids would grow up into hooligans, but he'd still be the kindergarten teacher.

So all he had done was place them in alpha shift so he could keep an eye on them, keep them sequestered in their own area, and set a rotation of guards on them to keep them put and quiet. When they got out of line, Kirk would give a discreet nod and the guard on duty would give a warning. He told his men, over and over again, not to pay them any attention. That simple.

This had worked, until a couple of days ago, when the waiting changed. Tempers ran a lot shorter now. And Grale had had plenty of time to hone his insights into the crew. It was rapidly getting too easy for him to upset a crew member. Kirk admitted that even he was letting Grale's unrelenting gaze get to him.

**Day 18**

On the eighteenth day Kirk was in the back helping beta shift come in from snow clearing duty - particularly grueling on this day, in minus twenty-five and a howling wind - when he heard a shout of anger followed by a loud commotion, up front. He shouldered his way through the men who had all turned toward the escalating trouble.

He found an enraged Irving locking Stack in a strangle hold, choking the man. Both Johnson and Argyle were restraining Reeve, which left Nurse Chang to guard Grale with just a hand on the chest, which was sufficient because the big miner just stood watching, a sneer on his face.

Kirk clapped a firm hand on Irving's shoulder.

"Let him go, Lieutenant!" he ordered.

To his great relief, Irving immediately released his hold. Stack fell to his hands and knees, gasping for air.

"I'm sorry, I-," Irving began when there was a cry of alarm and a flash of motion in the corner of Kirk's eye.

Kirk turned but it was too late. His breath was violently expelled as Grale's shoulder slammed into him, knocking him square off his feet. His chest exploded in pain when Grale's full weight crushed him into the deck. Pinned down, gasping for air, a rain of spots clouding his sight, he failed to evade the fist that connected with his mouth. Helpless, he steeled himself for more, but it didn't come.

Fry and Lasky dragged the miner off him.

_So tired._

It was all he could do not to stay down and curl up on the spot. Suppressing a groan, he eased himself onto his side so he could push himself up to sitting. Then he took a moment to catch his breath, which came painfully through a chest that was on fire on his injured side. His ears rang terribly and blood was pouring from his cut lip.

"Jim!"

Kirk accepted McCoy's hand and started getting up. Looking up then into the turmoil of his crew, he saw it. Grale being held, not struggling but laughing softly at the men surrounding him.

The surge of murderous rage in their faces.

"HOLD IT!" he roared, breaking free of McCoy's support and propelling himself into the circle.

All froze around him.

He stood shielding Grale, reeling a little, his hands outstretched to ward them off.

_Like he's my friend, and they my enemy._

He lowered his hands, suddenly too dizzy to stand.

But he stood.

The only sound in the room was Grale's soft, mocking laughter.

Kirk turned, locking eyes with each and every one of his men, reading their expressions - memorizing them - of fear and anger, shame and despair.

When he had come around, he confronted Grale. Not breaking eye contact with the miner, he wiped the blood off his lip with the back of his hand, then stepped to within a foot of the man.

"We don't expect anything from you so we won't be disappointed," he stated in a voice taut with control. "But if you hinder our survival in any way, I will put you in the brig."

"_Brig_!" Grale snorted. "There ain't no _brig_."

"Oh, but there is, Mister Grale, there is," Kirk said, in a voice so cold everyone in the room froze anew.

He jerked his thumb at the welded shut door to the cockpit.

He could see the realization in Grale's eyes. The giant made himself tall, but they all knew it, that it had not been an empty threat.

"Take them out of my sight," Kirk ordered, and they were taken away.

"At ease," he said to his men. He was aiming for firmness, but it came out sounding like an afterthought. He knew he should add something, but he couldn't think of what could make right what had just happened, what had_ almost_ happened. What he had let happen.

_So tired. _

The men broke up with a low murmur. None looked their Captain in the eye.

"Jim?"

"It's just a cut."

_Just more blood on the uniform. Mine this time._

"It's not the cut I'm worried about," McCoy said softly, indicating with a discrete nod Kirk's arm protectively slung around his chest.

"Yeah," Kirk sighed.

He followed McCoy, his bewilderment growing. What was Grale _doing_? Surely the miners' survival depended on him and his crew? Was it just in Grale's nature to stir up trouble? Was he really still being a sore loser? Was he somehow thinking he could salvage his position on the planet, with Davis gone?

He thought not. There was something he didn't know, but he was too tired to strategize, to imagine his opponent's motivations.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

**Day 19**

"Scotty, I want you to do something."

Several minutes later Kirk was peering through a crack in the Sick Bay curtain. Behind him, McCoy watched him closely. The Captain stood leaning against the door jamb, a little bent over, an arm slung around his side. No doubt standing, even breathing hurt him. Grale's assault had badly bruised his already battered ribs, refracturing one. He had obviously marked and taken aim for the Captain's weak point.

In the main cabin Scott approached Chekov at the console and started taking down some data. Then he furtively glanced at Stack, who was lying on his bunk, his back turned toward them. Grale and Reeve were outside with the rest of Alpha shift, taking a leisurely stroll while the crew slaved away at clearing the snow.

Their labor was not a happy one. Not even the Captain's suggestion of a soccer game would have cheered them up. _Especially_ the Captain's suggestion... Scott knew of the men's shame, that they had let it happen to their Captain, had let him get hurt, and that they had come close to something unforgivable. But he also knew that their guilty feelings didn't in any way alleviate their hatred of Grale. They would not forgive the miner, and so could not forgive themselves.

The men grumbled at Doctor McCoy because he put the Captain on forced bed rest in Sick Bay. But they all suspected it was better that Kirk didn't join them outside for a couple of days.

Scott shuddered a little, his memory of Grale's assault bringing him back to that time, right after the crash, when he found Kirk unconscious on the deck in the Science Section. He had been sure Spock was dead. He had been sure the Captain was dead...

He set his jaw.

In a murmur, but loud enough for Stack to hear, he said,

"Poor blighters."

Chekov took the bait.

"Who, Mister Scott? You mean... the _miners_?"

"Aye, the miners."

"They're just as poor as we are, Mister Scott!" Chekov said indignantly, "if not _less_! Because they're not doing any of the work! All they do is make trouble!"

"No-oo, Mister Chekov," Scott came back wisely, and he put all his feeling into it. "We're here out of duty. _They're_ here because they chose the losing side of an argument that wasn't even theirs. Image, if they hadn't followed that bastard Grale, they'd be all cozy in their camp, guaranteed future profits. Poor blighters, that's what I say."

With that he took his leave of a stunned Chekov.

He walked straight back to Sick Bay.

"He heard?" Kirk asked, staggering for the bed he had been confined to on Doctor's orders.

Both Scott and McCoy started forward to help him, but each deferred after a warning look.

"Aye, Capt'n," said Scott, his face pained. "I saw his back stiffen. He heard alright. Capt'n, pardon me for askin', but aren't we in enough trouble already without playing these cloak-and-dagger games?"

"I know this is not how we do things normally, Scotty," said Kirk gently, sitting down gingerly on the bed. "But I need to… build some insurance."

Scott nodded, hesitated . "Sir, about yesterday. The men-"

"-The _men_," Kirk cut him off, then his voice softened,"the men came close to the brink." He winced, touched his lip, shook his head. "They won't again, I know that. It's fine, Scotty. Let's put it behind us."

Scott nodded sadly, and left the room.

"You should rest," McCoy began.

"I should be out there with them, Bones. I should-make it right somehow, show them I understand..."

"You won't be able to do that if you break that rib and puncture a lung, Jim."

"I know," Kirk sighed, and he let McCoy help him ease into the bed. He leaned his head against the backrest and closed his eyes, finally relaxing.

McCoy fretted. He was almost out of supplies. He was reusing IVs. The medication was almost all gone, and he hadn't insisted when Kirk refused an analgesic or sedative. There was more frost bite to come, more accidents, and yesterday's brush with what amounted to mutiny... Kirk interrupted his thoughts:

"Spock?"

"Still stable. He needs almost nothing, that's how deep he is. I don't know if I'll be able to bring him back, once we get back to the _Enterprise._ _nineteen__ days_, Jim! When will they be here?"

"I don't know, Bones," said Kirk softly. "I don't know."

He closed his eyes and slept.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

**Day 22**

Kirk was back in the main cabin, in his bunk, trying not to toss. It was a frustrating affair, going to sleep, even if he was dog tired.

They had crashed on Ignis twenty-one days ago.

The pain in his chest and his trouble breathing were much relieved after bed rest and light duty. But his concern for his crew had only grown. His mind raced with decisions, plans, predictions, fears. His brain was constantly attuned to the sounds in the cabin and up on top, listening for trouble, for changes.

Not much going on now, though. Alpha shift was in deep sleep, exhausted from shoveling the four feet of snow that had fallen on The Billboard. All of beta shift was out there, finishing the job. The next ten hours were going to be absolutely, dazzlingly clear. They wanted The Billboard to shine. They wanted it to shout it out to the ship up there in space:

_We are here!_

Inside the cabin it was dark and silent but for some soft snoring and the small shifting sounds of Chief Xiao at his makeshift desk in the middle of the cabin. Xiao had been grounded by the Doctor for frostbitten toes and was working on his weather calculations. The Chief was determined to crack the meteorological code of Ignis.

Kirk pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed and closed his eyes. His arm dropped. He _needed_ to sleep-

-a sound. Eyes wide open.

Faint. Utterly alien. A contorted sound, at first far away but then too close, right outside the hull-

Kirk was out of the bunk just as Xiao leapt up, panic flooding his face.

A deep, resounding _boom_ enveloped the _Audubon _which, trembling, answered with a deafening shriek of metal. Kirk grabbed the post of his bunk as the shuttle violently jerked to port. In the middle of the room, without any support to hold onto, Xiao swayed like a puppet on a string, just managing to stay up. Things – tricorders, pots and pans, all kinds of equipment – clamored to the deck. Men screamed and Xiao was yanked off his feet as the shuttle _slid_ _down_.

Then came to a stop.

Everyone held their breath.

"What was that?" Kirk asked.

"The ice—it shifted," Xiao gasped. Gingerly he got to his feet, arms outstretched as a counterbalance, anticipating more commotion.

A canister rolled noisily past him. The deck now listed about 15 degrees to port.

Kirk spun around and took off toward the back, hanging on to whatever was fixed to steady himself. In passing he checked on the men, still in their bunks.

McCoy emerged from Sick Bay, leaning into the door jamb.

"Jim, what the hell!"

"All well in there?"

"Yeah. Material damage, but everyone _else_ stayed in their beds… What are you-"

Kirk had already reached the airlock at the end of the corridor. He yanked it open and leaped the few steps to the small porthole in the outer hatch.

McCoy swallowed when for a moment Kirk's head came to rest against the hatch - a small, alarming gesture of defeat. Then the Captain straightened and announced to the crowd that gathered behind him,

"The tunnel has collapsed."

00000000

_It could have been worse. _

That's what he told himself. They could simply have been crushed. They could have slid much deeper and found themselves sinking tot he bottom of the ocean. Busy tricorders recorded no further breach of the hull. The push had been on the starboard side and down, but only by seven feet.

"An earthquake, Chief?"

"Of sorts, Captain," said the young meteorologist, "but not of the planet's crust. _That_ would've-would've been the end of us. It was the surficial layer of the ice, the layer we crashed into and that we're stuck in. It is always new, forming, made up of fragments that are being added to and pressurized by the falling snow and the wind from above, from the sides by the rest of the pack, and from within by temperature shifts. These pieces are always rubbing up against each other, like ice floes. Not much but… _this _one was enough to push us."

Kirk nodded, but what to make of it? Suddenly they were a tiny air bubble stuck in a mercurial sheet of ice the density of steel, beset by pressures on all sides.

He turned the button on his communicator.

"Chekov? _Lasky_?"

Still nothing. The minerals that laced the snows on Ignis and prohibited planetary communication also messed up short range communication. Still, his men should be less than fifteen feet above them.

"Could a storm have blown in, Xiao? A whole lot of snow come down?"

"I don't think so, Captain. I do read a drop in temperature, which we did predict. For the rest it should still be clear up there."

Kirk could have screamed. Half of his men were out there and, clear skies or no, they would need shelter soon. As for the half in the shuttle, unless he knew what had happened, or was happening, to the landscape above them, he dared not open the hatch. They wouldn't be able to dig themselves out anyway. Where would they put the snow?

"Chekov! _Anyone_! Come in!"

The crunch of static. Then, a voice.

"Keptin! _Keptin, are you alright_?"

Everyone who was working, picking up debris, doing sensor sweeps for breaches, stopped and cheered.

"We are, Mister Chekov. And you?"

"We are all okay. The ice moved, like it was on wheels! No one is hurt but we dropped the communicator. We are digging toward you. We shouldn't be long, Sir. It is keeping us warm… Not that _I_ need that, of course!"

Kirk's smiled – the first time he showed relief.

"No, of course not, Mister Chekov. You should find us seven feet deeper down than before. Let us know when we can open the hatch and start helping out. Kirk out."

_That was close. Too damn close._

He had believed that half his men were gone. He had believed that he and the rest were buried in an icy grave. He had dreamed all this and today it had almost come true. And in his dreams Spock was always the last to survive, breathing shallowly, turning into a living ghost, on and on among the frozen corpses…

His desire to scream had been replaced by a need to throw up. He couldn't go on like this. He had to _do_ something.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

**Day 22**

Scott came into Sickbay, looking for the Captain and the Doctor. They weren't in the Treatment section, so he pushed through into Recovery, where he found them at the bedside of the only patient there.

He hadn't seen the Vulcan in... he forgot how many days. He was horrified at the sight of him. So thin, so pale. Was he really still alive? Only the other day he had mercilessly put down the rumor that Spock was dead, that the Doctor and the Captain were only keeping up appearances, for morale's sake, or for other reasons...

Scott swallowed, knowing how bad was the news he was bringing.

Kirk saw McCoy looking and turned stiffly.

"What is it, Scotty?" he asked.

Then he stood up from his chair and took a step so he blocked Scott's view of the ghost's face.

"Capt'n, Doctor," the Engineer began, his voice pained, "can ye spare a moment? Uhm-It's the primary energy coil. It's under tremendous stress. I'm expectin' it to break down any time now."

Kirk hesitated for only a second.

"And if it goes?"

"_When _it goes, Capt'n," Scott gently corrected him, "it'll cut our energy supply by eighty-five percent. At our present rate of consumption for heating, lighting, synthesizing food, and melting water, what's left in the secondary coil will last forty-two hours."

"Forty-!" Kirk gasped. "And we can't transfer energy from the primary to the secondary coil."

"No, Capt'n, not unless we hack away underneath the shuttle to reconnect that line. We tried that..." He shook his head.

"And with the secondary coil, if we conserve drastically on everything else, how long can we maintain a temperature of, say, 50 degrees?"

Scott winced. "Seventy hours, Capt'n, at best. Aye, it's the heating that consumes the most energy."

"And after that?"

"I'd say we'd drop to around freezing, Capt'n, maybe lower."

It took Kirk a second or two to process this.

"Doctor?"

"You're not gonna like it. Healthy humans maintain a core temperature of 98 degrees Farhrenheit and a skin temperature of 70. So we like to run our internal combustion in rooms at 70. At 50 we'll be uncomfortable, but not a whole lot. At 32, even if we bundle up, the cold stress will be considerable. We'll be leaking core heat and our bodies will start to shiver to keep it up - a great metabolic drain, so we'll need enough food to fuel it. It's not lethal or particularly painful, but it _will_ weaken us."

"And going outside, getting cold and wet, then coming back in to that?"

McCoy shook his head. "Forget it, you won't be able to get warm again."

Kirk breathed in deeply, conquering the shock.

"First, food. Bones, start synthesizing. Make sure to use the primary coil. Get all you can from it. Scotty, collect two teams. One to make a sled, large and strong enough to carry food and supplies for twenty days for three men. The other to make a tent."

McCoy stared at Kirk with undisguised horror.

"Jim, that's-crazy! You can't go out there, it's minus thirty!"

"It's two-hundred miles to the Miner's Camp, Bones. Not all that unreachable."

The Doctor visibly struggled with all the objections springing to mind. "But rescue's on its way!" he blurted out. "What if it arrives and you're off in that-that wilderness?"

"Then they'll just come and find us too," Kirk countered, his patience wearing thin. "But what if rescue takes longer than a month, Bones? Who knows how much food you can synthesize, for eighteenmen. A month in freezing temperatures. And if going out there will be so hard, will we be able to keep The Billboard visible? No-_-enough!_I've decided. We take advantage of the first break in the weather and _go_."

McCoy opened his mouth but was silenced by Kirk's forbidding hand. When Kirk was sure that the Doctor was quiet – in fact, speechless – he turned to the Engineer.

"All the men are inside? Tell them we're having a briefing in five minutes."

Scott for a second said nothing. Then he nodded.

"Aye. I'm sorry, Sir."

McCoy watched Kirk's hand come to rest on Scott's shoulder before the Engineer left the room.

Why did the sight of that hurt so much?

"The food, Doctor," Kirk ordered, and he too left.

McCoy stood there, bruised, livid. He knew this new crisis had necessitated Kirk's decision. Of course. But it was obvious that the Captain had planned this all along. While the rest of them were simply waiting, Jim Kirk had imagined that trek.

But so what? What angered him so?

It was that Kirk therefore had long ago given up the hope of rescue that all of them – the Doctor included – had been counting on, for their very lives.

And look at him! Already he appeared stronger, now that he was taking back control, was no longer waiting – like all of them were content to do. He looked by far the fittest man in the camp, and the Doctor knew that wasn't the case, not even by a long shot. But there it was. In their moment of deepest trouble, James Kirk was _thriving_.

McCoy knew how Kirk would play it. He would inform the crew of this new development and, before they realized that their old hope had run out, he would offer them this new hope like it had been there all this time, right in front of their noses.

_This crazy plan _that rested even more squarely on the Captain's shoulders.

And all of them would volunteer, of course.

And what would the good Doctor say? That in minus forty your teeth explode? That under hypothermia, bone marrow stops producing red blood cells and the kidneys stop concentrating urine, flooding the body with poison? That frozen skin burns in blisters, turns black and hard, cracks open and the flesh and muscle underneath spontaneously peel off the bone? That, when exposed to constant cold, shivering, starvation and exhaustion, the human heart goes into arrhythmia, then arrest? That men, their brains addled, strip naked and freeze solid in a minute?

That Jim Kirk was not immune to all of that? _Or_ his volunteers?

Of course not. The good Doctor would bite down and shut up and follow along nicely, all the way to _hell_.

He turned to the synthesizer in the wall and started punching in instructions, his heart pounding in his throat.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

**Day 22**

Kirk remembered reading about Captain Robert Falcon Scott and two of his men freezing to death in his tent in the Antarctic. He remembered the testimony of one of those who found them, months later. Scott's two companions had died lying down in their sleeping bags. Scott had been in between them, face contorted with frostbite, half sitting up, one hand reaching out to a friend. He had died like that. The relentless cold had not even allowed his body to rest in death. They were eleven miles from the food and heat that would have saved them.

Kirk imagined the silence in which the Commander must have spent his last hours, alone with his dead men, in terrible pain, watching the hopeless end of his life creeping closer.

He stepped through the curtain and looked at each of his own men, studied their faces as they turned to him. The room fell silent.

He stepped into the circle.

"Gentlemen!" his voice rang out, clear, unwavering. His gaze was unstinting. "Our circumstances are about to change, and not for the better. The primary coil which was damaged in the crash has been pushed to the brink by the shifting of the ice. There is no doubt that we will lose it. When that happens, the secondary coil will not sustain this kind of environment. So we are synthesizing food. As soon as the coil goes, we'll turn off the heat and it'll go down to freezing, and though that will be uncomfortable, we'll survive that too. But we will no longer be able to go outside as often to clear our Billboard. This will make it more difficult for rescue teams to find us."

It was quiet as the grave. Into that silence, which frightened him more than anything else, he set his hope adrift.

"And so it is simple," he said. "We must rescue ourselves. As you all know, it's one hundred and sixty miles as the crow flies to the Miners' Camp. I estimate the walking distance to be two-hundred miles. At thirteen to fifteen miles a day, I can make it there in fifteen days, in favorable weather. But let's not count on that and let's add a couple of days waiting out the inevitable blizzard. The Camp is well equipped for rescue operations. I will be back with help in another couple of days or so. That makes it less than a month. Will you wait for me that long, men?"

Silence.

_Turn it around now!_

"It will be hard," he said softly, as if to himself, "harder, perhaps, than anything we've ever done. It has already been hard... _But,_" he sang out, "if our lives among the stars have prepared us for anything, it is _this!_ We can do this, you and I. You will need to hold down the fort, _here_, to keep a good ship, in good spirits. And I will get you help."

He stopped, squinting a little, as if listening for a distant sound. A low murmur rose. Among the men Kirk smiled.

"I can't do it by myself, of course," he stated.

It was like the room breathed out.

"For the rescue party, I will need two volunteers."

The hands came up slowly, cautiously at first, then in one wave. Within seconds, all hands were up. Kirk looked at each of his men in turn, smiling with gratitude and pride.

He looked at the miners last. No show of hands there, but something better. Grale was confronting Kirk with his usual defiance. But the other two, Stack and Reeve, they were scared. Then Stack looked at Grale, his eyes wide. And Kirk knew that, whatever was the secret that Grale had been keeping, it would soon be flushed out.

0000000000

Jake Stack grabbed his Commander's arm.

"You have to tell him!" he whispered fervidly.

"Shut your mouth, mate!" Grale snapped under his breath.

He looked at Kirk. The Captain was still looking straight at him. He was seeing this.

"He'll never make it to Camp," Stack persisted, even pulling on Grale's sleeve.

Grale could have hit the man, but instead he turned and interposed himself between Kirk and his idiot comrade.

"And then we'll all die here," Stack went on. "Them _and us_."

Grale said nothing, stared the man down. But Stack was frantic.

"_I_'ll tell him, then! _Hell, _I'll even _take_ him!" he hissed.

Grale snorted. "You wouldn't last a day out there, mate!"

"That's what _you_ think, Grale, but_ I_ want to live! I'm still in better shape and have more experience with the terrain than any of these men, and with Kirk we can make it there."

Grale sneered.

"I want to live, Grale," Stack bit. "Damn it, if we hadn't been on your side against Davis we wouldn't be in this mess. And now _you_ won't even lift a finger to save us, or yourself!"

"Okay, _listen_, I agree, okay?" Grale retorted. "You think I wanna die? I'll tell him. Let me think, okay? Give me a minute to _think._"

He turned around. Kirk was still looking at him, his eyes hard.

0000000

One team was helping McCoy synthesize and store the food. Another was working out what the rescue party would need, what needed to be made, what they had to make it with. The trek involved long days in the bitter cold and some high altitude mountaineering. The boots they had cobbled together and the jackets they had sewn for shoveling snow wouldn't do. There could be very little slop duty on this voyage. And they would need tethering equipment and a tent that would keep them warm, allow them to sleep without freezing to death.

Kirk stayed on the fringes of the smallest team, which was mapping the best route for the rescue party: the shortest and lowest lying path, skirting the most awful passes in the Trader and Vogel Mountain Ranges.

But his attention was almost entirely on the miners. There was trouble in paradise there, and Grale was on the receiving end of it. Not long now…

The giant broke away from his companions. Johnson was about to step forward to stop him, but refrained when Kirk held up a hand.

The miner approached the mapping team. His attitude was defiant, but his back was to the wall.

"You're going the wrong way," he said, addressing Kirk.

All heads turned to him. Kirk held his breath.

"The chances you make it to the Alpha Camp are minimal," Grale said.

"_Alpha _camp?" Kirk repeated.

Grale set his jaw and pushed through to the bench with the map. He took the marker from Xiao and drew another cross, way off to the west, but closer than their first target.

"There's another: _Beta_ Camp. Here. A hundred and ten miles, I'd say. We abandoned it, the minerals are too deep to mine. But the infrastructure is still there, emergency equipment, food and supplies. There's also a cable connection to Alpha Camp."

"It _functions_?" Chekov asked, bewildered.

"We use it to monitor seismic conditions out there. We put it down one season when the weather was good. _This_ is where you have to go. You circumvent the Trader altogether, only have the edge of the Vogels to get through. It's not gonna be easy cause you're gonna need to climb this, here, the Geist Pass. 11,200 feet. Only 70% of the atmospheric oxygen that you need. It won't get you to civilization, but it will get you to the next best thing. You get there, dial in, get help, lay low there till they get you too."

Kirk's heart was racing. He looked at the map, almost couldn't believe his eyes. It was the route to take: much shorter and, except for that Pass, lower and flatter. After talking himself into the other trek, this one was a sheer gift.

Everyone was looking at Kirk with bated breath.

Kirk nodded.

"That's the one," he said. "Xiao, print out whatever maps we have in the database for this route. Grale, tell us more about this camp."

Things were looking up.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

**Day 27**

Kirk, surveying his crew through a gap in the Sickbay curtain, suppressed a groan. The relentless shivering had exacerbated the pain in his side. It was a smoldering fire, growing hotter by the hour. It sapped his waking strength, then ruined what little sleep his exhaustion forced upon him.

_I can't afford to get weaker._

With an angry gesture he pulled his jacket tighter around him.

The primary energy coil had failed six hours after Scotty's warning and within ten hours the temperature had plunged to just above freezing. They had managed to synthesize enough food for twenty days, thirty with strict rationing. And thirty days was what they were still preparing for, even after finding out about the closer target. To Kirk's mind, the shorter route didn't shorten the rescue. It just added days for waiting for better weather.

Four of which were already gone. Four days of ferocious storms locking them inside their ice cave, shivering, waiting, _weakening_.

Kirk scanned the room – once so neatly kept, now shabby and disorganized. The crowd of men sat around, pale with hunger, worry and the cold. There wasn't enough material for jackets for everyone, so they rotated the cold weather gear and the blankets. Still, no one ever really got warm. What little food they had barely fueled their shivering. The shivering prevented them from sleeping. Argyle and Stack had nasty coughs that kept everyone awake also.

There had been no more games of soccer, no shoveling snow away from their sign of hope. Even the card and poker games had been abandoned. The men lay in the bunks or on the floor, or hung around, lethargic, irritable and – worst of all – despondent.

"This crew's in trouble, Scotty," Kirk said under his breath.

"Aye, Capt'n," Scott said morosely.

"But Xiao says clear weather is on its way," Kirk added. "I'm more convinced than ever that this will be our one shot. If the men have to wait, at least let them wait for something they _know_ is happening. Is the oxygen apparatus ready?"

"Aye, that it is, Sir, but I hate having you rely on it without testing it under harsher conditions!"

"I know, Scotty. It will have to do."

"I still vote against this plan, Jim," said McCoy, behind them.

It was like something slammed shut in Kirk as he drew himself up to full height. He turned slowly, the flush draining from his face, his eyes turning cold. Scott actually took a step away from him. He had never seen the Captain so angry, so bitter.

"This is not a democracy," Kirk said in a hoarse voice that was almost inaudible. "I don't have to answer to you but if you must know, I _have_ to make a push for it _now_. I'm close to my own limits here."

The Doctor too stood tall. His blue eyes blazed with indignation.

"Oh, so you agree that you have limits, then!"

"Be quiet!" Kirk hissed.

But McCoy would not back down.

"Rescue is on its way, Jim," he grated. "There is no need for you to go risk your life and the lives of two others. You say the men need to wait for something they know is happening. Did you ever consider what will be going through our minds as the wait drags on?"

Kirk seemed not to be listening. He cut through McCoy's speech:

"Tell me how much food do we have?"

"You know how much we have, Captain!"

The two men faced off. Scott even feared they would come to blows. He glanced at the curtain. The cabin behind it had gone suddenly quiet. They were all listening. Hopefully they couldn't make out the exact words, but there was no doubt that they could guess the emotions.

"Tell me anyway, Doctor," Kirk insisted, his voice quiet but cold and sharp as a lancet.

"Twenty-six days!" McCoy flung the number like a dare.

"And after that?"

McCoy was silent.

"So I have to spell it out for you," Kirk pushed on in a low growl. "_Starvation_, Doctor. You've seen it but you've not experienced it. _I_ have. I know what it's like to be so desperate for food you could kill your best friend for a putrid mouse, for his-"

He choked on the words, finally looked away. His chest was heaving. He had, for a second, to close his eyes.

McCoy stared at him, in shock. He reached out with a hand.

"-No, Bones," said Kirk, stopping the Doctor's hand in midair. "I will not let that happen to you. Do you hear? I _will not_, not again."

There was another moment's silence. The Doctor's hand fell back.

"But-do you trust that Grale, Capt'n?" Scott tried, very gently. It was clear he didn't want to, but this concern had to be voiced as one that was shared by all of Kirk's men.

"I don't," said Kirk. "That's why I'm taking him with me."

He forestalled the new protests with a movement of his trembling hand.

"Tell me - either one of you - when I'm gone, will you be able to keep him under control?"

He looked first at the Doctor, who was tongue-tied. Next he looked at Scott. Seldom had the Engineer looked so apprehensive. He set his face to grim, but said nothing.

"I didn't think so," Kirk whispered. "Look, I leave him here with his mates and he'll have this camp under control in a day. And don't think for a minute that he'll spare the leaders. That's you two. I've no choice but to take him with me and diffuse that bomb before it even starts ticking. And out there his life will be on the line just as much as mine. I'll _use_ his strength and his experience. He'll have to depend on us, and he'll have no choice but to be dependable."

He hesitated, then murmured "I'm sorry," to no one in particular, and stalked off, disappearing behind the curtain that led to Recovery.

McCoy followed him in a minute later and found him sitting by Spock's bedside.

The Vulcan's body was not shivering to keep itself warm, so they kept him bundled up and regularly gave him vigorous body rubs. But that didn't prevent him from falling dangerously close to a lethal temperature, as far as McCoy could tell.

Kirk barely looked up from Spock's deathly pale form. He heaved a bone-weary sigh. McCoy, knowing so well how doggedly he kept up the appearance of strength, was shocked to see the fatigue, stress and physical pain so plain on his face.

"That's how the blows are falling," Kirk whispered, addressing Spock. "Nothing we can do about it, now, but roll with them."

McCoy couldn't find anything to say to the Captain's bent head, the eyes now closed in misery.

_Why does he always have to sacrifice himself, _he thought, but without vehemence.

And then,

_That's why he's our Captain._

00000000

McCoy stayed right behind Kirk's elbow as they made their way through the crowded cabin to the miners' corner. The Doctor knew that the Captain was in bad shape. He also knew that it wouldn't make any difference to the plan. Kirk would be the one to go. He wouldn't want to burden anyone else with such an ordeal. He wouldn't trust anyone else with the job.

Neither would McCoy.

All the Doctor could hope for was to get a full physical out of Kirk, and at most to sequester him in Sickbay with a precious dose of painkiller and sleeping aid while the storm slowly abated. And to make sure he made it through this last move.

The miners rose together, a show of strength and unison that had however lost its sheen. Kirk faced them resolutely, a force all on his own. None of his exhaustion and pain showed.

"Rayan Grale. Go to the gear team and get fitted for a suit. You're coming with me."

Shock and confusion clouded Grale's steel gray eyes.

Then he burst out laughing.

McCoy felt the sweat break out on his back, where it instantly turned cold and made him shiver. For he suddenly realized that this was the moment of truth. Not about whether Grale would obey Kirk – about that, McCoy had no fear.

Grale stopped laughing when Kirk took the phaser from his jacket and aimed it point blank.

"You either come with me _in _the suit, or without it. _Your_ choice."

Grale looked from the phaser to Kirk's face to the men behind the Captain, all rising.

McCoy nearly choked. How had he not understood, until now? For now they would know whether there really _was_ a Beta Camp, or whether for some perverse reason Grale had made it up to ensure that Kirk and his strongest men would leave, and perish.

"I'll come," said Grale.

McCoy's relief was instantly overshadowed by the thought that this had been too easy. None of the defeat he had expected from such a consent showed in Grale. But if Kirk thought so as well, he didn't show it. They stood aside to let Grale pass.

"Jim-"

"I know, Bones," he said.

He walked back to Sickbay, McCoy close by his side.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

**Day 28**

The day dawned – a joke among them, as the sun wouldn't set here at the pole for another two Earth years – overcast but windless and not too cold.

Kirk, rested after a compulsory dose of painkiller and sleeping aid, felt better than he had in a long time. He stood on the plain a little bit away from Scott and Johnson. He was glad for the low, sluggish cloud cover. As a blanket it kept the temperature elevated and relatively constant. More importantly, it formed a barrier to the enormous, soul-sucking sky of clearer days.

Strange, he thought, to stand facing west. All this time he had looked east, to where they had come from, the Miners Camp, the _Alpha_ Camp. But now they were going west. Miles across the field of sastrugi – ice waves - and pressure ridges that separated them from the edge of the continent. Then on to the frightful Vogels over unknown territory, as much head on as they could, for they'd have no time to pick and chose the easy way.

Going by the few satellite images and maps they had in the database, the massive glacier would be easy to find. It would lead them up into the mountain range, partway toward their greatest challenge, the Geist Pass. At 11,200 feet the Geist was the lowest point in the jagged spine of the mountains. They'd have to find or make their way over that Pass.

According the Grale, if they survived that, they would make it. The miners had blazed a trail from the Pass to the abandoned _Beta _camp in the foothills, on the other side.

_According the Grale…_

"Capt'n?" Scott called.

Scott and Johnson were going back in. Kirk shivered. The temperature was only just bearable for standing still in his light coat. He took one last glance at the distant peaks, then followed them down.

He found them with the others in the main cabin, all assembled around the sled, standing to taut attention.

"At ease," Kirk said.

"The sled is packed, Sir," Scott announced.

Kirk admired it. It was surprisingly small. When he pushed it, it moved easily on two oiled sliders. It seemed like all its weight – a little under two hundred pounds – came from its load. It could be pulled by either one or two men in harness. Another man could ride on it. If necessary, they could ditch it and transfer the load to backpacks that the equipment team had put together. But the sled seemed worth a try. It also came equipped with a sled meter that would measure their progress, which would give them one way of navigating.

"The tent and sleeping bags," Scott said, pointing at the large bags lashed to the side. "And in this box, 90 feet of rope, a hatchet, a small hammer and tethers, and other tools you might need." He moved his hand to the largest box, atop the center of the sled. "The provisions, dehydrated. Two food packets for each of you for twenty days, and the stove with the fuel cells, enough for melting two liters of snow twice a day, for drinking and reconstituting food. And," he sighed, reluctantly, "in this box, the three oxygen apparatus, masks and bottles. Six hours of oxygen each. No more."

He was visibly uneasy about the oxygen. Kirk clapped him on the shoulder.

"Thanks, Scotty. It's what we will need."

Xiao brought him a large metal box. "The navigational instruments, Captain."

Kirk admired the instruments. It would be crucial for them to determine their position to plot the best course to their target. They had a few aerial images, which they were also bringing, but it was one thing to draw a dotted line on a map and another to walk it. So Chekov had devised a sextant that was, to Kirk's relief, a much smaller and lighter version of their first one.

There was also a stopwatch and a tricorder. The latter was useless as a sensor – all it could read was the ambient temperature. But it now stored the lunar and solar tables that would allow them to use the sextant to determine latitude and longitude. For altitude, Chekov and Scott had built a pressure altimeter. The rescue party had been trained to work with these tools, and Kirk had taken possession of the navigational responsibilities.

He nodded appreciatively and Xiao strapped the metal case to the side of the sled.

McCoy added a small box.

"This is your emergency kit: a hypo with a few vitamins and something for altitude sickness, bandages, splints, disinfectant, you know," he added quietly.

The rescue team had received thorough refreshers of their emergency medical training, and a long lecture on the dangers of hypothermia, frostbite, and insufficient hydration. Kirk was the only one who knew about the vial with three lethal doses of potassium chloride.

McCoy then turned to take from Scott one of the two woolen sweaters that had been circulating among the crew. The other one would be worn by Johnson.

"Can't say it smells of roses, Jim," he said, "but it'll keep you a bit warmer."

Kirk shrugged off his light coat and allowed the Doctor to help him pull the sweater over his uniform shirt.

Fry brought him the outer pants, and Lasky helped him into the jacket with hood, which could be closed around the face with a drawstring.

"Like the sleeping bags, Keptin," Chekov explained, "soft and dry on the inside, wind break and water proof on the outside, and in between we sewed pockets of insulation that we took out of the shuttle walls to keep you warm."

"Fireproof, too, no doubt!" Kirk remarked.

Chang helped him into his uniform boots, now swathed with an extra layer of waterproof and insulating material and reinforced with stiff bands around the ankles and shins. Kirk stamped a foot and the screws that studded the soles rang against the metal deck. They each had an extra pair, which meant three men on the shuttle were now bootless.

Chekov almost reverently pulled the head mask over the Captain's head. It covered the head, leaving only the eyes bare, but it had a flap in front that could be pulled to the side to expose the face. Irving brought the goggles, the same that had been serviceable for shoveling snow, which Kirk hung around his neck.

Argyle and Ricks pulled the thin inner gloves over his hands and over those the new ones. These were massive, unwieldy affairs, but as he was mostly just going to walk and pull the sled, he wasn't much going to need fine finger action. Not all the time.

Scott broke the line and approached with a flask. He slid it into the Captain's jacket pocket.

"What's that?" Kirk asked.

"Whiskey, Capt'n. Not much, but enough to give ye a boost should ye need it."

Kirk clapped him on the arm. He knew it was the last gift. These men had given him all they had.

He was also becoming uncomfortably hot. He joined Johnson and Grale, also fully equipped, and they faced the others.

_Already we stand separate…_

"Friends, though we leave you now, and will be gone a while, think of us as though we are here. Soon we will be rejoined. Think of _that_. I know you won't give up. _We _won't give up. We _will_ endure."

It would be true, because he said it.

He turned and led the procession out. No one spoke as Kirk helped Grale and Johnson into the harnesses. Then Kirk started. The sled moved smoothly on its skis.

McCoy sent everyone back in after a few minutes. He and Scott took the two remaining light jackets and stood looking at the vanishing men a while longer. He saw Kirk turn back, just once. They had gone a long way and were about to disappear in the mist-like cloud of ice particles that were whipped up from the sastrugi surface.

The Doctor raised his hand and waved. Kirk waved back.

Then they were gone.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Thank you to all readers for hanging in there! Here's part 2. I would call it "From the Frying Pan into the Fire". Louiseb in comment 100 (!) pointed out that reading the rest of the comments may spoil it for those who haven't read the previous version of this story. Heed that warning!**

**Part 2 **

**From the Journal of James T. Kirk**

**Chapter 20**

**Day 1, 13:00 - Camp 1 – 17 miles traveled, 14 crow (geodesic) miles from Base**

Thank you, Bones, for this notebook and its waterproof pouch, and Scotty for this pen which I hope will keep on writing under more dire conditions, which we're bound to run into. I was never a writer, as my family will tell you. It reminds me too much of status reports to rehearse the happenings of the day. But I'll do my best.

It seems like it was a lifetime since we left camp, but the tricorder's stopwatch tells me it's been only 13 hours. I'll reset it every 18 hours, just like we've been doing at base camp. I'm anticipating 10 to 13 hours of marching, 8 to 5 of resting, eating, sleep, camp set up and break down all included.

Today we marched 12 hours, covering the first 14 miles in one straight, unobstructed line. It was the good start we sorely needed. It was warm and windless under dense cloud cover. The mellow sastrugi between the crash site and the continent were easy going. All we had to do was aim straight for our landmark, the first mountain in the Vogel range on the rim of the continent. Johnson, tongue in cheek, named it Mount Doom. It began to deserve its name as the hours wore on, looming more and more grotesquely.

We all felt we should be running, the going was so easy, but I reigned us in, paced our progress. Good thing too, because the distance to the land was much further than it seemed. And we needed the strength when we hit a pressure zone of folds and knots of harassed ice, pressed together into a formidable mess. This was the only indication that we had neared the landmass, which, though hidden below hundreds of feet of ice, still manages to form a barrier to the advancing frozen ocean. The ice started creaking and booming all around us, and sometimes there was sudden movement under our feet, not as drastic as when the _Audubon_ slid down, but worrisome. We were in a hurry to find a way through.

Easier said than done.

We backed off a little and for the first time veered off course, sharp east, to find entry to the land. After 2 hours of skirting the turmoil we came upon a broad swath that seemed a little less chaotic. I assume that the edge of the buried landmass there was more scoured so the ice can creep more easily up onto its slope.

I can't imagine how many thousands if not millions of years went into this grinding down. I wish Geologist Ricks were here to explain it all to me. I expect that Grale has invaluable practical experience, and know from hard-won experience that he has great physical strength, but his knowledge of how it all works below the surface seems to be limited to the deep geology of mineral deposits.

We had a short break of tepid ice melt and a ration, then decided to go for it. We felt up for it. We entered a maze of crevasses. First we tried to use them as corridors – narrow, claustrophobic, threatening to close in on us as the ice shifted and screamed. But they were so convoluted we often had to climb up to see where we were, and more than often we popped up expecting to see the mountains but found ourselves facing the ocean. After an hour of walking in circles we decided to head straight for the Vogels, blast the ridges. Climbing up and down with the sled was downright exhausting. Still, I want to mention how grateful I am for how strong it is, how well packed, lashed and calibrated, and for it being as light as it could possibly be, though by dinner time I was happy to lighten its load by an ounce or two.

At the end we climbed a sheer ice wall, 15 feet high. I went first, being the most experienced climber. It was brutal on my hands, because I had to take off the extra gloves which afford no traction on icy ledges. My apologies to Argyle, who put together the thin undergloves, but I've had to cut off the fingertips. The hammer and the anchors came in very handy. I reached the top and threw down the rope. Grale climbed up and he and I hauled up the sled, dangling by the rope. Then we hoisted Johnson up. My hands were soon warm again.

It has taken us another 6 hours to break through - 6 hours to advance, I estimate, half a mile on our course. Once we crossed that last divide, the ridges became a lot less dramatic, but we were exhausted. Still we wanted to push on, so we did at a much slower pace for another 2 hours until we cleared the pressure zone.

I kept a close eye on our condition and the time. At 12:00 I ordered to set up camp. The temperature was dropping (from 26 to 12F in an hour) and as soon as we stopped the heat from our exertion quickly left us. We retired to our tent, quickly cooked and ate our ration of food and drank the amount of melt water that the good Doctor prescribed.

I'm worried about the sky. A high wind pulled off the cloud cover just as we were about to go to sleep, and the sky is a blazing blue. It will be our first time sleeping in the tent. Though it's made of a dark material, I'm afraid we may need to wear our goggles to temper the blinding light.

I took a sighting at 12:30. Though the sled meter counted a total of 17 miles traveled (I would actually add to that number, since often in that last stretch we were carrying the sled, so its meter didn't run), my sighting puts us at 14 miles as the crow flies from Base Camp.

14 miles was our goal. I repeat, we made a good start.

**Day 2, 14:00 – Camp 2 ("Wave Camp") – 6 miles (estim.) from Camp 1, 20 miles (estim.) from BC **

After a vain attempt to sleep with the goggles on, Johnson and I ditched them and slept half suffocated by our sleeping bags and jackets to keep the blasted light out. Grale kept his goggles on. Those things are carving permanent grooves in his face, but he isn't bothered. We managed about 5 hours of sleep.

When we woke up we found we were warm inside our sleeping bags, but the bags themselves were frozen to the thin thermal blanket, and that was frozen to the thin bottom of the tent, which was frozen to the ice below. We had to peel everything off carefully, for fear of ripping the fabrics. Our jackets and extra pants, which we keep piled on top of us simply because there is no other space, as well as our boots were rimed with ice. They crackled and shed ice shards sharp as needles as we pulled them on. Pulling on those boots in the morning is sheer torture, but it wakes one up. The hot tea was a blessing.

It was a good beginning to a bad day. We made little progress, are exhausted. When we finally set up camp my legs collapsed under me. Johnson is stronger than I am, but he too was glad for the end of this day. Grale's strength is off the charts. He insists on doing most of the sled pulling and it doesn't seem to bother him. So much is accomplished, bringing him along, I hope you understand now, Bones. Well, Johnson and I took turns, one in the other harness, the other pushing.

The reason we needed two to move the sled is the terrain. It looked so promising yesterday. On average it rises gently toward the foothills of the Vogels, but the wind has blasted the surface into a turbulent sea of giant, acute sastrugi, cresting waves of ice, at first 1 to 2 feet high, gradually rising higher. It's all very regular, but no less a pain than the crevasses. You see, we're headed toward the source of the wind (the nearing mountain range) so the crests point straight at us. Stepping over them – where possible - is a pain, but even in the lower ones the sliders of the sled keeps getting stuck and only a mighty yank on the harness and a shove from behind can pull it up and over.

To make the work even more brutal the mountain wind we had to thank for this decided to welcome us. It started up around 5:00 and soon turned vicious. It whips up the ice particles and flings them at us from all sides. Any area of uncovered skin is instantly scoured and visibility amounts to an almost total white-out – though I am sure, going by the light that penetrates this haze, that the sky above is a clear blue. The temperature plummeted to -22F.

Paradoxically, these horrible conditions are the reason we made 6 miles at all and kept going until 13:00. The extreme cold simply made stopping impossible. Minute by minute I was growing more afraid that we wouldn't find a sheltered place to set up camp for the "night". In our condition – correction: in _my_ condition – we should have stopped earlier, but there was simply no way we could have set up the tent. All there was to it was to keep going.

As we slogged and dragged, the frozen waves became higher, the passage even more tortuous. When we finally came upon a wave towering five feet above us, it was time to stop. We are finding the carved out space underneath the giant sastrugi ample protection against the wind. We checked its integrity and it seems stable enough to stand another 4 hours, during which we may get some sleep.

I'm so tired my eyelids are like lead but the wind hollers and the burning in my side is harrowing. I'm cursing that injury, my inattentiveness when Grale attacked me, and the many days of inactivity at Base Camp. I don't want to slow us down.

It may be cloudless up there but through the ice drift we're in, sighting the moons is impossible. Sled meter unreliable. 6 geodesic miles is my (hopefully conservative) guess.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

**Day 3, 13:00 - Camp 3 – 8 miles traveled**

Last night the wind shrieked and howled. After four hours of tortured slumber we broke up camp at 1:00 and followed the curve of our benefactor wave for a while, partly to stay out of the mad, freezing wind, also because climbing it seemed impossible. At some point the wave's orientation was such, relative to the direction of the wind, that great gusts got caught in it and rolled over us, like shot through a shotgun barrel. We were in a hurry to get out of there and simply smashed through it with the hammer and the ax.

And were glad to see that we were moving away from center of the storm. By some mechanism of wind, moisture and surface, the sastrugi gradually diminished from there on.

Still, in our exhausted state we haven't yet made it out of the choppy ocean. There is less ice drift and I can see the mountains are nearer. Not far now, but we couldn't go on. I couldn't. I became breathless with the exertion, the pain in my side and the suffocating effect of the frozen wind and the face mask. I collapsed, we set up camp and will hopefully get some rest.

It's -19F, wind still very strong.

The sled meter indicates a measly 8 miles traveled, must be half that distance in crow miles. No sighting, but our target, Mount Doom, is visible in those moments when the ice drift clears a bit, and at least we're on track.

**Day 4 – 13:00 - Camp 4 ("Camp Breeze"), alt. 1500 ft - 45 geodesic miles from BC**

We made it out, thank God, after a short, bad "night". It was too cold, the wind was shrieking, giving us – well, Johnson and me - a pounding headache. Due to poor anchoring the tent nearly flew off on us. We caught it right on time and nearly killed ourselves setting it right again. Hands very bad but, I think, no frostbite all around. It gave us a real fright. If the tent goes, that's the end. We couldn't sleep after that so broke camp at 0:00.

If only we had pressed on a little longer yesterday! After two hours of chopping through the ice waves a strange thing happened. As the waves flattened, the brutal wind too died down and quite abruptly gave way to a benign atmosphere of 12F. Visibility was restored 100% and we were treated to the majestic view. Mount Doom rose up ahead. Above it hung a narrow band of lens-shaped clouds stacked high.

It was like stepping into a different world altogether and this time I wished Chief Xiao was there. I would like to ask him if our conjecture is correct – we formed it sitting on the sled, drinking a hot brew – that the wave of the wind rolling over that mountain was replicated a second time around, creating a bell curve under which we can enjoy this relatively windless air that is also warm and dry, perhaps because the sudden movement of the air quickly evaporates the moisture…

It was a relief to sit down without being suffocated and rattled to death. Also, we don't talk much, if at all, on the march, and on our hurried breaks all our attention goes to efficiently preparing and eating our rations. At the end of the day we set up, eat and crash, and the others doze off as I write my log. When today we finally just sat down, we didn't touch on our progress, the road ahead, the people we left behind, what we need to do. We do that privately. We indulged in high-minded meteorologizing.

It was good, though. It evened things out between us, and confirmed to me that Grale is _with_ us.

We stole just 20 minutes during which we dried out some of our gear and I took a sighting of the first moon. That moderated our joy considerably. The tricorder gave me a reading of 85˚22' 1" S, 159˚ 31' E. Plotting it out on our map we have come only 36 crow miles from Base Camp. Only 36 miles in 3.5 days! We've not reached the mountains yet and already we're way below the target we set ourselves.

Though my body screamed for more rest, I was eager to take advantage of the terrain - smooth, the snow velvety, ideal for both our boots and the sliders - not knowing (yet) how far it stretched, or how long it would last.

Of course it didn't last long enough. That would our luck!

By the sled meter we had come 6 miles in a straight line when the wind picked up again. And what a wind it was! Like a vortex turned on its side, rolling, barreling. We pushed through it, leaning into the harnesses or over the sled until we were almost horizontal, our hands seeking things to grab on to on the ground. The worst was that we could barely breathe. It was like all the oxygen had been sucked out of this place. Visibility was less than a foot because of all the suffocating ice that swirled and swept. The only indication that we were going into the right direction was the sudden rise of the terrain under our feet, and then it was over. Luckily the ordeal had been short.

We were back into a warm, dry breeze rolling off the mountain and good visibility. We took another 10 minutes to catch our breath, dispel the roaring of the wind from our ears, knock the ice out of our over-clothes. Then we pushed on and, finally, up. After climbing some 700 feet the terrain became very steep but we saw a gap to the west and skirted the mountain toward it. It was a gateway into the range.

The moment we "turned the corner" the freaky mountain wind left us. The temperature dropped to, on average 20F, but no wind. It was pleasant, really, and our ascent along the strait was gentle enough, but we were exhausted and we clocked another 4 hours for another 5 miles (trav.).

The altimeter indicates we're at 1500 ft. and my "evening" sighting indicated that we gained an incredible 9 geodesic miles since my last reading, which cheered us up. We've eaten and are going to bed optimistic.

**Day 5, 12:00 - Camp 5 – 2800 feet alt. – 14 miles traveled, estim. 44 geod. miles from Base Camp.**

Blessed sleep! A solid 6 hours. We woke up comfortably warm, though it went down to 0F. Still, such cold fixes moisture and keeps us and our sleeping bags dry. It was hard to leave our beds and step into our freezing, crackling clothes, especially those boots. But we were almost giddy when we breakfasted at 1:00, in a hurry to get going again in bodies that felt better than they had for a long, long time, even though our stomachs kept up their grumbling.

Following our fold we stumbled on an enormous, gently rising plateau. The snow cap seemed solid, stable, but to be sure we tethered ourselves with rope, Johnson (who has a good pace) up front, me in the middle, Grale in the back, pulling the sled. We were strung out the full 90 feet of rope. It is very uncompaniable marching, that way.

It stayed cold, around 0, still no wind, few clouds. The small sastrugi were rock hard, which is great for the sled's sliders but makes it hard to grip with our boots. We each again broke and bent several screws, which we replaced when we made camp. At this rate we will run out of screws. Slipping and stumbling we tried to make up for lost time.

After six hours the temperature started to rise and the surface became softer, easier all around, but clouds started to appear over the ridges ahead, first in wisps, than heavier stacks that rolled down the mountain faces with great speed. If wind was pushing them it was high up there, we didn't feel it. I didn't like the look of them. Still the weather held and we finally set up camp in a small depression.

We have been swallowed up by the Vogel Range. We're starting to see bare rock in the heights: peaks sticking out from the snow cap, massive black rock faces so sheer the snow can't grab on to them, with mammoth icefalls that hurl themselves over them. The view is so awful we rarely look up except to gauge our best approach.

Camp is at 2800 feet. The wind is picking up. It's 12F now and the sky is closing over us. Couldn't take a sighting, but by the sled meter we traveled 14 mile today, not all of it in a winding way, maybe 10 crow miles between us and Camp Breeze.

I don't like not having a sighting. I am responsible for guiding us and hate not to know exactly where we are. The map shows the plateau, but not in detail. It's anyone guess where we are.

Do I fret too much about this? It's only going to get harder. After our scare with the tent yesterday we are all three of us obsessive about anchoring. We all know we're operating on the knife edge of survival and one stupid mistake will be the end of us. So we're fixated on details, like doling out the right rations, knowing how much is left, and packing the sled. Dropping something and having to retrieve it wastes time and energy. I fear I may find too much comfort in the numbers of sightings and readings.

Maybe I even find too much comfort in writing this journal. Like I said, I was never a writer because it reminds me of status reports, but here there are no status reports. Here I don't have to portray everything through a lens of diplomacy with a mind to the consequences of my wording, my emphases. Here it helps to lay it down on the page, in detail and the way it is. I reread it and my mind clears a bit. I think of you reading it. And I know that, whatever the circumstances that lead you to read this – if ever you do – it will not matter if I bare my soul's joy or despair, and chronicle my weariness, my hope.

I need to sleep now.

**Day 5, 16:00 - Camp 5**

Damn rotten luck.

It's the middle of the "night" but there is and will be no sleep. We're stuck in a blizzard. 27 F, a hard wind, and thick snow coming down in buckets. We have to crawl out every hour to dig or the tent will collapse. We tie a rope around the victim's waist so we can haul him back in from the total white out. Then he is wet through and tough we try to get as much of the snow accumulated on his clothes out of the tent, there is always some that melts and makes everything in our confined space even more sopping wet. We are wet to the bone and so terribly cold despite the higher temp. Add to that the cold that radiates from underneath us and our enforced immobility.

Miserable. Damn miserable.

Chief Xiao warned us that the weather in the mountains is much more treacherous and it is no longer a theoretical lesson. I hope this weather leaves us soon. We need to get dry, sleep.

**Day 6, 13:30 – Camp 5 **

Still here, at Camp 5. We "slept" a little, only one at a time – the other two keep one another awake so we can dig. If the tent collapses under the heavy snow, we suffocate. The shivering has become unbearable for Johnson and myself – Grale doesn't suffer from it much.

It turned to severe leg cramps for Johnson and he nearly went mad not being able to shake them out. He went out to dig out the tent three times in a row – the most miserable of jobs – just to be able to walk, stand, crawl, _move_. It tired him out completely but of course there is no rest and he is very down about it.

Stuck inside, inactive for most of the time, we are suddenly more aware of our hunger. For a while we turned this to our advantage by talking about our favorite meals. It distracted us, Johnson especially, and we laughed about the silliest things. That kind of amusement is bound to turn sour, of course, for when we started on our tepid gruel, it fell far short of our fantasies. We chewed and swallowed mechanically. There was very little conversation after that.

**Day 7, 12:00 – Camp 6 -2900 f. alt. – 8 miles traveled (sled meter) **

We've moved on! The blizzard left us around 2:00. We crawled out of the tent and found a mess. The wet snow underneath and around the tent had melted but was quickly freezing solid as the clouds skidded away and the temperature dropped. The wind kept up though, very cold (-15F and dropping) and it blew right through our wet clothing and made us shake like bones in a sack. We were very stiff, exhausted, but it was imperative that we break and pack up the tent before it froze to the surface. As it was in our haste and discomfort we tore some of the seam near the bottom. Peeling it away in our poor condition took Grale almost an hour, while I dug out the sled – correction, while I chipped it out of its ice cave. Johnson could only sit by. I'm afraid these hours of dealing with the equipment have to come out of our sleeping hours.

Moving again would have been our only comfort. It would warm us up, grease our joints, get the blood circulating again. But the blizzard had drastically changed the terrain. The smooth plateau was turned into a war zone. The wind gouged out craters and gullies, piled the unsettled snow and ice in great mounds. The bitter cold turned the drifting snow/ice into loose, sharp sand and we sank into it over our ankles, sometimes deeper. It is like wading though dunes.

We decided to abandon the direct course toward the Geist that the plateau had promised us before the blizzard, and to go south-west, some 6 miles or so we judged, straight to the closest mountain that rises from it there. It is very craggy, not for climbing, but we'll try to find another pass around it, west again, where the surface is perhaps not so bad and where we might find some shelter from the wind.

It was an awful slog in the sledgehammer head wind. Even Grale lacked his usual stamina and I had to help him pull the sled. Johnson walked very slowly alongside and we frequently had to wait for him. Around 5:00 he collapsed. His legs just failed to move from weakness. We rearranged the sled so he could ride on it. He was mortified, but there was nothing to it. This slowed us down even more, and we made 2.5 miles in as many hours. And still we didn't make it to our goal, which turns out to be further away than we thought. It is difficult to gauge distances here.

So we're still camped on the plain, our tent is buffeted by the wind. It's very cold (- 22 now). Sled meter says 8 miles traveled from Camp 5. Still no sighting. I fret that we're off course. I grit my teeth too much.

**Day 8, 8:00 – Break between camps 6 and 7 - 3900 f. alt (?) – 4 miles traveled**

Woke up at 2:30, terribly late and cold, but wanted to give Johnson extra sleep and found him improved, able to walk again. The terrible plateau surface was unchanged. We made the right decision to get off it. It took us another 2 hours to finally reach our new target, where we were confronted with buttresses of ice jutting out from the mountain face. We could see the spur we wanted to reach, and after some exploring spotted a way through.

We had an hour of perilous climbing, with hands beaten up and some scrapes. The sun glancing off the ice makes climbing more dangerous. And the business of hauling up the sled was terribly clumsy, still we want to hold on to it. But once off the plateau we almost immediately found a protected spot. We are eating a hot meal and repacking the sled so it can accommodate a man in an instant should the need arise.

I have to control our sleep/waking schedule better. It is hard to do with it always being light, and there's the temptation to give in to one's fatigue and turn in when cloud cover takes some of that brightness away.

The altimeter places us much higher (3900 feet) than where I think we are, eyeballing the distance to the plateau where I took the last measurement. We must be in a low pressure zone. Xiao did warn me that the barometric pressure would vary quite drastically due to the weather, and that it would throw off the readings. I try not to worry about it too much. Hopefully we'll soon reach or spot a place of which we the altitude is marked on our map, so we can recalibrate the instrument.

After this break we will put in another 4 hours, no more, no less. There is a kind of natural road that seems to wind between the crags and in approximately the right direction too. I am purposely putting off taking a sighting until we reach night camp.

**Day 8, 13:00 – Camp 7 – 3600 feet – 7 miles traveled - ****57 geod. miles from BC**

We climbed quite a bit. Upon arrival at Camp 7 the altimeter showed a more reasonable 3600 feet. I stopped us at exactly 12:00 and we set up the tent and ate. I took stock – I should do this more often. Our hands are the worst for wear. We have to take off our outer gloves for climbing and setting up and breaking camp. Our feet, thank God, are fine. "Hands and feet," you said, Bones, "take care of those hands and feet." We're trying.

Sighting of both moons: 86˚12' 3" S, 162˚ 11' E. So 57 geod. miles from BC. We're despondent but no one says a word. We just stare at the numbers, the map. Now we're huddled together in our tent in our cold, wet sleeping bags. Still windy, cloudless, and very cold (-23F).

**Day 9, 11:00 – Camp 8 ("Dry Camp") – 5600 feet alt – 69 crow miles from BC **

A good day and we needed it.

We woke up at 0:00, after almost 5 hours of deep, exhausted sleep. We warmed up with a hot breakfast (though not sufficient) and tea. Johnson was himself again. Temp had risen to -1 F, and a moderate wind. A few clouds drifted in but they seem harmless.

We were on our way at 1:30. We made good progress and we got stronger and warmer as we went. We followed the fold, winding between the peaks, up and sometimes down, rising steadily. At times when the road dipped we let the sled pass us, like a dog on a leash. It's a good thing we held on to it. As we went along the wind lifted. We could hear it howling among the mountain peaks and the few clouds are hurrying along. But down where we were it was virtually windless in the most sheltered places, and also warmer.

I keep telling myself that these impressive peaks are really the _tips_ of a massive mountain range, buried under ice and snow. Grale told us something about what mining is like on this planet. The most useful and profitable ores are usually the most deeply buried. Sometimes you have to drill through miles of ice, and then you have to drill through bedrock. I kept looking down at my feet and imagine the immense "floor" underneath me, which is in essence made of water.

By the sled meter we traveled an incredible 14 miles today and the altimeter indicates 5600 feet. We could have gone on for a bit longer but I called a halt early because we found a windless spot under a sheer, black, south-facing rock face. That made for the balmy temperature of 31 F! We laid our wet tent, sleeping bags, boots and outer clothes out to dry – hence "Dry Camp". We stood around sunning ourselves a little, squinting, and kept busy inventorying and repacking the sled.

We also finally had the energy, courage and leisure to sit down and talk about our progress. I took a sighting of the moons and calculated 69 geod. miles from BC. We've been en route for 9 days now. We agree that we're not going to make it at this pace. We have 11 days of food left and decided we should cut our rations to stretch it out. We also have to cut down on our fuel consumption. We'll only make hot meals when absolutely necessary. We feel we need to and _can_ speed up because we're fitter, better rested, dry and warm again.

Our only complaint is our hands and hunger. We are constantly hungry and the lack of calories is obviously sapping our strength and cutting rations won't help. Grale assures us that there is absolutely nothing to eat on this planet. No flora, no land animals, no birds, not even any insects. He even believes that the vast ocean that this planet is covered in is devoid of animal life, but he admits never to have investigated it. And anyway, if it exists, it is irrelevant to our stomach cramps and muscle fatigue.

On that note, I turn off my lamp and go to sleep.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 20**

**Day 10, 11:00 – Camp 9 ("Glacier Camp") – 8200 feet - 80 geod. miles from base camp**

To sleep in warm, dry bags in a place sheltered from the tug and noise of the wind does miracles. We rose fresh and rested, were off by 1:00, sad to leave Dry Camp but eager to make a move. And, though the fold rises sharply and the sled is heavy, we got along really well.

I think we had traveled 13 miles when, around 9:00, we suddenly felt a change in the air, heard it too, a change in the aspect of the wind above us. We had been enclosed on all sides by crumpled cliffs and crags, and now, ahead, it felt like an opening up. We all three got excited and ran the last 200 feet to round the bend. And there it was. The glacier.

I've seen glaciers on Earth, in the Rockies, the Himalayas, the Andes. But neverthis_._ From our vantage point above it we could see pretty much all of its estimated 90 winding miles, at certain points many miles wide, from its head in the West, far away and incredibly high up in the depth of Vogels, to its foot in the East, down at the edge of the continent.

And _it moves_, constantly and perceptibly in a slow viscous flow with sudden, dramatic effects. Within 20 minutes of setting up camp on our ledge we witnessed three collapses on its sides, where buttresses of accumulated ice and snow broke off the side of the mountains. These are chunks of ice the size of skyscrapers and the noise of their impact was like thunder. One such upheaval, across from us, on the other side, was followed by a massive avalanche off the mountain. We looked over our shoulder to find with relief that "our" mountain – or the part of it that sticks out from the icecap - is low and the snow quite stable.

The movement is most evident at the foot of the glacier, where it terminates in the ocean. There it surges with a gush of melt water. Even this far away we could see the sloshing stream glistening in the sun. Above it huge pieces break off every minute and pile onto the wet icepack until it can no longer bear the weight. Suddenly the berg tilts and slides into the ocean, then _leaps_ up again in an explosion and bombardment of solid blocks of ice the size of houses. It is not a place for humans and I am glad we are a good distance away. But of course all that movement down there impacts the glacier everywhere. I even suspect it impacts the _Audubon_…

The plan has always been and remains to follow the glacier up, but it is a tortured road. The majority of the upper layer is riddled with fractures ranging from smaller cracks that our sled could straddle to crevasses that are 50 feet wide and could be 200 feet deep. And we know that many of these are hidden by snow bridges made of soft, packed snow that would not bear the weight of a man.

And how to even get _onto_ that road? We can see an easy path down from our camp, but it stops at a gap where the ice has pulled away from the scoured mountain side. We can't see to the bottom. I shudder to think what one would find down there, beside certain death. Tomorrow we will see if we can jump it somewhere or if we need to keep skirting the mountains and find an easier way on.

Getting onto the glacier will of course also place us back into the wide open, but even so, we haveto do it because it will take us to the Geist.

At some point early on, as we stood there, gaping at it all, Grale gasped aloud. Johnson and I were afraid he was having an attack of some kind, it was so out of character. But then he pointed at what he had just spotted. In the distance, two formidable peaks and, between them, the Geist Pass.

The sight was enough to make us fall to our knees. For fear. For hope.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

**Day 11, 13:00 – Camp 10 – 9,000 ft alt.**

While Johnson broke up camp at 1:00, Grale and I scouted out a way to get onto the glacier. We soon found it. It wasn't far and seemed doable but it nearly cost me my life and certainly part of my sanity.

At some point the gap between the gouged out mountain flank and the ice cap narrowed to 4 feet. There was a broad ledge from where I could push off. The plan was to find a good place to anchor a line and we could haul everything over.

I jumped but instead of finding solid ice under my feet I plunged straight down into a mass of soft, suffocating snow that had caked against the opposite wall of the chasm. Luckily I was on the rope with Grale belaying. The rope yanked taut and I was slung back, out of the cascading snow, hard against the other side of the chasm.

I think I refractured that rib, and it has been bothering me considerably since then, but I hardly registered the pain at the time. It was the _mental _strain that made me, I think, loose consciousness for a moment. If it had been any longer I would have dropped the ax which I was holding, and thank God I didn't! When I looked down past my dangling boots it was like looking straight into the maw of the ice planet and something snapped in me.

_What if I don't make it? _

At that moment the crushing urge to get out of there was rivaled by a paralyzing _fatalism_. It was only with the utmost willpower that I broke free from that brink. Breathing hard I clambered up the rock face as fast as I could. Grale helped by pulling me up. When I looked back the gap it had widened to 10 feet. I didn't look down again.

After regaining my composure I thanked the miner but all he said was, "You'll do the same for me." I sincerely hope that if that time comes, I will.

We found another crossing, five feet wide. We threw some snowballs at it, not having anything else that is dispensable, but there was no way of knowing until one jumped. Grale volunteered but I insisted on doing it myself, beat-up rib cage or no.

This time I landed on solid ice. I pounded in the ax and tied a line. Then I crossed over again and we got Johnson, who had taken all the gear off the sled and divided it in two and a half loads, by weight, in backpacks and boxes. Grale took the half load on his back and we tied the sled over it. Soon everyone and everything was on the glacier and we repacked the sled.

Strung out along the length of the rope, we headed up with me in the lead, then Johnson, then Grale, the sled on a short leash behind him. Wary of snow bridges I felt my way as best I could with the handle of the ax. After a while I became more confident in reading the ice – its color, its consistency – and the formation of the crevasses. In this part of the glacier the chasms run parallel to our course and I found a way between most of them as well as crossings narrow enough for the sled to straddle, so we didn't have to carry it too often.

We moved a mile in, away from the valley walls and the reach of avalanches. That those are not speculative was made clear to us twice today, when we witnessed the furor of tons of snow barreling down. Then we turned west, straight up and kept going till 11:00. We set up camp on what we hope is a stable patch on the glacier. The sled meter reads 11 miles and the altimeter 9,000ft.

The moons are obscured by the low cloud cover, so no sighting. The clouds worry me for what they might hold in reserve. They also give the impression when we look up the glacier of looking down an enormous barrel. I tell you, the view is sometimes too much for the heart to bear.

We're exhausted, hungry, but content with our progress. We'll see what tomorrow brings.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

**Day 12, 12:00 – Camp 11 – 10,800 ft alt.**

Much the same as yesterday. We feel up to it and make good, steady progress. The strain of being the leader was getting to me. Around 8:00 another snow bridge opened up right in front of me. I stepped back just in time, but after that my confidence plummeted. It made me realize how worn down I am. After half an hour of dithering I asked Johnson to take over from me and we went along fine again. Sled meter reads 12 miles. Still overcast – cloud cover thickening, darkening, hanging lover. No sighting.

**Day 13, 13:00 – Camp 12 – 12,800 ft.**

10 hours of very stressful progress. At least we were lucky with the weather, which is unchanged, but for how long? 22 F, breezy, entirely overcast with dirty-looking clouds. We hit a region of more ice than snow, with frequent lenses of ice where the surface snow has melted and refrozen. Crevasses are wider here for some reason and we waste a lot of time finding a way around them, seeking passage. The rock-hard, smooth ice affords little traction and we broke several boot screws and had some nasty falls.

The scariest one was when Johnson, in the lead, lost his footing just as he and Grale were on an ice blade ten inches wide between two deep crevasses. Paul disappeared down the crevasse with a scream and Grale followed right behind him. I immediately grasped the line and threw myself onto my back, slid a few feet but then my boots caught on a low ridge in the ice. The sled hit me in the shoulder and almost knocked me forward. That would have been the end of us. But I braced myself and held their combined weight for a horrible ten seconds until they found a grip on the crevasse wall.

I was thankful for the ten minutes I spent in considerable discomfort from the cold, yesterday, while Johnson rebound my chest. Nevertheless, I don't think I can stand much more battering.

They came out shaken than I was but I hurried them along, not wanting them to dwell on it. I'm worried about Johnson, who understandably had a couple of seconds of indecisiveness. When he wouldn't move I asked him what was wrong, he said,

_I don't want to be in the lead._

I said, _Go second then._

He said, _No, the second one is pulled down too._

I said, _Okay, go last._

He said, _But the third is the one who has to save the others!_

I could see where that was going. I tied him in second place, telling him that we had to make the base of what we named Starvation Rib. Knowing that the Rib is our way off the glacier, he and Grale were happy to oblige their harassing leader.

They probably had second thoughts when we finally stopped at 11:00 and got a good look at the Rib.

We are a mile away from the steep slope that leads up to the next level of the glacier. We will not be climbing that slope or even getting close to it as it is basically a giant avalanche couloir, as is evident from the great mess of blocks of snow and ice littering the base.

We will instead climb Starvation Rib, which sticks out of this slope like a rib from a starved person – certainly a fitting comparison. It is mostly white but at places it shows its true colors: it is a narrow ledge of rock that protrudes from the river of ice and snow. All that means is that the whole mass won't collapse under our feet, the way that slope might.

But the Rib comes with its own problems. The way from the base to its crest is a steep, 200 foot incline. The first part is a band of fluffy and loose snow that wraps around the base, just ripe for mini avalanches. It reaches all the way up, but we saw from the high vantage point of Glacier Camp that the first part of the crest is fragmented by deep gashes that run across it. We will have to stay underneath those and traverse along the west side of the rib. At some point there the soft snow disappears and the flank turns to all ice and very sheer. Grale figures that the blue green striations in some parts indicate vertical ice. We'll have to ditch the sled.

If we can make it up that, we will have reached the top of the Rib, the crest sharp as a knife edge, which rises steadily, 2000 yards long. I won't speculate on the state of the surface there. It _seems_ stable.

One thing is for sure, Starvation Rib will deposit us above the glacier and one third of the way up Geist Mountain itself. It is the only way short of wasting days if not weeks looking for another passage.

Whether we start the ascent tomorrow will depend on whether the weather holds. The closed sky shines an ominous gray-orange, the air feels oppressive, the barometer is rising fast. It's hard to make out what makes that thundering clamor in the distance. Is it the glacier ripping snow from the mountains? Or is it the pack of clouds above us? I am too tired, too warm in my sleeping bag, to open the tent and look.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

**Day 14, 15:30 – Camp 14 ("Starvation Camp") – 14,500 ft. **

Strange that we should skip the number 13 for this camp but call it Starvation Camp. My head hurts too much to think it through.

We were woken up at 17:00 to the crash of thunder and then a blinding show of lightening. We opened the tent to tiny ice crystals falling down in straight lines, all lit up with the blue fire. It was a magical sight but the danger was all too clear to us.

And sure enough, after only a few minutes a deafening thunder crack ripped a large chunk out of the glacier slope and we evacuated the tent in a panic, leaving all our gear behind except for the boots we had already pulled on.

Only some of the massive air movement from the avalanche reached us, none of the debris. Part of our minds had known that we were far enough away from the roiling cloud of snow that churned down the slope, but not one of us had been able to fight the flight instinct in the face of such a monster.

The moment I saw that we were safe and started back to the tent I suffered a violent flare of headache and nausea. Johnson caught me before I fell – in my underclothes that would not have been a good thing. As they dragged me to the tent the ice crystals thickened and turned to snowflakes. The wind, which had been ominously absent, rose up in fury and by the time we were inside we were enveloped in a howling flurry.

I took your altitude concoction, Bones. Knowing you it's probably just some vitamins but I felt a little better. Grale is unaffected, so is Johnson. I had felt it coming – dizziness, nausea, mild headache - but I ascribed it to malnutrition and exhaustion. It had also been buried under a multitude of other, more acute pain sensations.

In any case, I had wanted to get up that Rib and over the Pass, fast, before altitude sickness caught up with me. Now we were stuck, and in the middle of a moving glacier no less! It is a testimony to my weakness after the attack that I even dozed a little.

By 3:00 the flurries and the wind let up and despite the "lateness" of the day we broke camp and without further delay approached the base of the Rib and started the climb. The grade was 55 degrees at first and the surface was newly replenished with a foot and a half of soft, wet snow. At times we sank in to our thighs and had to pull our legs up with our hands, so heavy were our boots and pants caked with snow. The lead cut a channel and packed down the snow. We changed leads every 15 to 20 minutes. I felt better, moving again.

When the grade turned to a grueling 65 degrees we divided the weight between us and abandoned the sled. It was caked with snow and too heavy. It has served us well, but in the high mountains where we're going it would be dead weight.

We slogged on, now under the added weight of our packs, leaning forward into the grade, the only sound that of our boots crunching and packing snow. The snow had stopped falling but the sky remained overcast and low, with a weird light falling from the dense, gray clouds. I looked behind me once to see the immense swath of the glacier bathed in that eerie light. It seemed like we were being given a reluctant reprieve and I didn't want to overstay our welcome. I resolved we would climb until we reached the point where the Rib fuses with Geist Mt.

We cut to the west flank of the Rib and now had to climb leaning right. With our packs it was very clumsy and we caused some snow slides but all of them below us while we managed to hang on. We finally hit the zone where no more loose snow accumulated. We hacked and stamped our way very carefully in the ice to the point where I thought we could climb up to the unbroken top of the Rib. We deposited our packs on the narrow ledge we had cut out.

I saw a way up. I took off my outer gloves and stuffed them in my pockets. This was _ice_, not rock. I'd have to do it quickly or my fingertips would freeze.

Adrenaline erased all nausea and ache and I climbed the 30 feet without thinking or stopping. 10 minutes and I was on the crest. It did not come as a relief! The crest was a knife edge barely a foot wide of a loose, granular snow, unstable and slippery as tiny ball bearings. On each side a drop-off I couldn't bear to gauge. Leaning over to check or even to catch a glimpse of my companions would have been suicide.

I put my outer gloves back on because my fingertips were nearly frozen. Then, on my knees, careful not to disturb the surface too much, I sought for a place to anchor the ax so I could start hauling up the others and the gear. My heart beating frantically from the exertion, I pulled up our packs first, testing the anchor. When Johnson made it up he was so terrified he needed 15 minutes to recuperate. He worries me. I can see the fear and hopelessness in his eyes. Grale came last.

Seeing that Johnson had lost his nerve I took the lead again. Grale brought up the rear. He is the heaviest and strongest of us and the most likely to keep us safe if both Johnson and I slip. Our heavy packs unbalanced us, the snow rolled and slipped under our boots. Those 2 hours on the crest of the Rib were the most nerve-wracking of this whole nerve-wracking ordeal so far but I see now that the mountains were with us. No more snow fall, visibility 100%. Even a small breeze could have puffed us into oblivion, but there was no wind, not even a draft. It was like the mountains were holding their breath, just like we were.

After over 10 hours we stumbled off Starvation Rib and collapsed on the flank of the Geist. No sighting but I know from the map that we're at 14,500 ft.

In our nervous and physical exhaustion it took us over an hour to unpack and set up the tent at "Starvation Camp". Grale, who is in the best state, cooked our half rations and though we are not hungry despite stomach cramps, we ate dutifully. My companions are both asleep.

I can't believe I managed to write all this down. It was a good way of unwinding. But now my head is too painful.

We made it this far. Bones, Spock, we'll make it all the way back to you!


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

**Day 15, 10:30 – Starvation Camp **

Lt. Paul Johnson reporting. 29 F, blizzard conditions. Grale and I dig out the tent and check its anchors hourly. Captain Kirk is in a bad way. Near unconscious most of the time, he suffers from a bloody cough and nosebleeds. He can't even hold down the lukewarm weak tea and we're afraid he'll get dehydrated.

till he refuses Doctor McCoy's medicine. We're stuck, he says, why waste the medicine? There are 4 doses left. The barometer rose 500 feet. Maybe he will get better when it goes down again? Acclimatize?

He insisted I report here. I don't have much to say. Only that he's right, we're stuck here anyway. Everything is damned wet. It is pure misery, like in those awful days before we reached the glacier. We survived then but now we're more run down and much higher up, on half rations and conserving fuel. I feel like I will never be warm again.

I feel I let him down on the Rib.

He says we should leave him behind if he isn't well enough when the blizzard stops. I don't think I can do that. Or the other.

**Day 16, 11:00 – Camp 15 – 16,800 ft.**

Johnson reporting.

The tricorder is no longer working so no more calculations of our position. It doesn't matter because we know where we are and where we're going, but the Captain seems very upset about it, I don't know why.

At 3:00 the blizzard cleared. Captain Kirk took a dose of medicine, said he was better, and we packed up. He insisted on carrying his pack. I feared he would collapse at any time and that he was overexerting himself not wanting to slow us down. Even with him in the rear and me in the lead I could hear his rasping breathing. At one point he fell forward with a coughing fit and ripped off his mask gasping for air. His face was strangely pale under a feverish flush. He spilled a lot of blood upon the white snow.

Then it settled, and he got up, and continued. I have never seen such strength. It made me proud to be his Lieutenant and I could see Grale too was humbled.

After that we went even slower but we have to go slow anyway because the snow dumped by the blizzard makes avalanches more likely. According to the barometer we climbed a 2000ft today. Took us 7 hours, set up Camp 15. I think we've cleared the avalanche zone now.

The Captain passed out the moment the tent was up. It's colder again now that the sky has cleared. No way of measuring.

**Day 17, 12:00 – Camp 16 – 17,800 ft.**

Kirk reporting. The nausea and headache are bearable. I take half doses of the medicine. The barometer indicates 17,800 feet but who knows how accurate that is. For the most part the snow cover was solid so we made reasonable progress until we entered steeper territory. Any surface steeper than 65 degree is polished smooth by the wind and we're looking at more of this tomorrow. I don't know if I have the strength. No wind today, though, and skies clear. Very, very cold and bright. Breathing in this cold air shocks my lungs, aggravates my cough. My face mask is blood-soaked.

We will cross the Gap tomorrow. Then it's just the descent and we'll have done it.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

**Day 18, 15:00 – Camp 17 – 15,000 ft.?**

Disastrous day. We've done it, but at what cost?

I woke up at 4:00 feeling much better, but with a suffocating feeling worse than ever. Then I realized that the tent was dark. I immediately feared some blizzard though it was dead quiet. Then I thought we were buried and in a panic tore the flap aside and found we were enveloped by a cloud. It was terribly cold. I went back to sleep fearing we would be stuck in it all day – you can't see a foot ahead - but by morning woke up to a wide-open view of the peaks, and us among them, _above_ the clouds. Windless but the cold is unimaginable, -40F (?).

It took enormous will power to get out of our relatively warm sleeping bags. Our teeth started chattering, our hands shivering uncontrollably. Even without this extreme cold everything is more difficult and sometimes we feel we move in slow motion, we forget what we were just about to do, or what we are doing here at all, for God's sake!

I guess it is the exhaustion, malnutrition and the continuous lack of oxygen. Johnson came close to tears when he caused another rip in the tent, but he bit down and kept at it.

He was the least of my worries. I caught Grale having more difficulty than usual getting his foot gear on. The man would have hidden it from me but I demanded he show me his feet.

His left foot was entirely frozen, a solid, white block of ice. He had no sensation in it, couldn't move his toes or arch. Had I rapped it with the ax I think it would have shattered and he wouldn't even have felt it! Apparently he had slept with it outside the sleeping bag. I confronted him angrily – I don't know why, I am so frayed – demanding to know if he had planned to just stuff his foot into his boot and _walk_ on it!

Anger is good, it warms me!

So we spent precious time and fuel on heating up a pan of snow and it took 2 hours for him to thaw out the foot while Johnson and I nearly went insane with the cold and the immobility, stamping around, wasting precious energy and time. Grale must have suffered but he didn't show it. He proved that sensation had returned to his foot by faintly wiggling his toes. I wasn't happy with it, but he was right in insisting that we had no choice but to move on.

So we struggled up through the last of the waist-high powder snow, then hit the last stretch. This was a steep path or rather ledge right beside a 5000 feet drop off. We didn't have enough anchors (3 left) or enough rope to make a safe traverse together, so we moved one at a time, the other two belaying.

It was slow, also because for every step I soon had to take 6 breaths, and after 20 steps I had to stop, lean on the ax and gasp. Still I waited until Johnson and Grale started having trouble before we broke out the oxygen apparatus, which brought instant relief and we continued to make good time.

We must have hit 18,000 and needed to climb another 700 feet to make it to the Pass, which was in plain view above us to the west. But in front of us the flank of Geist Mountain, straight down from its peak several thousands of feet higher up, had turned into a sheer wall of rotten ice, 20 feet high.

There was no way around it. At the end of my strength I looked at it and despaired. I think Johnson saw it, and maybe he felt had to make up for losing his nerve on the Rib. He said he would do it, claiming his hands were in the best shape, as well as his boots with the most screws remaining. With my condition and Grale's foot, he really was the best man to do it, so I relented.

I pointed out two places for him to pound in an anchor, and a third one for our last anchor if need be. Paul knotted the rope to his harness. Very cold, very tired, we were all three run down and not paying attention. _I _wasn't paying attention. I should have checked the knot. He was as exhausted as me, his hands were as bad as mine.

I didn't check the knot.

He made it two thirds of the way, in great concentration cutting hand and footholds in the ice with the ax and the screwed tips of his boots, pounding in 2 good anchors. I feared he was going too slow, but he came very close.

Then he hit a patch of brittle ice. He couldn't get a grip on it with his advancing foot. I called out to him to take it easy, but in his panic he kicked and his boot slipped and his hands gave out. He fell, sliding straight down. Grale and I tightened our hold on the rope and threw ourselves into the mountain, ready for the impact. We would simply catch Johnson and suspend him on the second anchor until he found a good spot to continue.

The knot slipped. The knot slipped and he was off the rope.

He had his wits about him still and kept the ax point to the wall. This slowed him down enough for me to lunge for him just as he hit the ledge. It was a clumsy affair and happened so fast I don't remember how it went off, but I managed to grab him and Grale managed to hold on to me and keep us all from the gaping depths below.

We found ourselves safe, but Paul had hit his head during his fall and was unconscious. The situation was desperate. We were at 18,000 feet, our oxygen was dwindling and there was no room and no way to pitch the tent and attend to him. Taking him _up_ in that condition was out of the question. Bringing him _down_ could perhaps have been done but it would have meant all of us walking to our grave.

You can imagine my relief when after a terrifying 3 minutes he regained consciousness. He even laughed when he came to and swore he was fine while a large lump developed on the back of his head. When he tried to get up he was so disoriented he couldn't stand without support.

There was no time to lose. The oxygen apparatus had no gauges on them but I knew we would run out soon. I roped up and made easy use of Paul's preparatory work. Everyone and everything was hauled up just as before. Paul scrambled up as best he could, then sat by while we discarded 1/3 of the packs and repacked everything so Grale and I could carry the essential gear (tent, bags, food, fuel and stove).

The Pass was there, _right there_, a ridiculously easy stroll after what we'd been through. I gave a quick pep talk and, supporting Johnson between us, we made a run for it. There was no victory in finally stepping over the spine of the mountains range and looking down at the other side.

What we saw was more clouds, deep down below us.

There was a path, precipitous but nothing like what we had just climbed. We descended very rapidly, and in places we just slid down, a bit too recklessly, I now think. I have to be more aware of that. One stupid mistake is enough!

Finally we couldn't go on anymore. Grale and I pitched the tent. I don't know the altitude because we had to leave the barometer behind, but we were still above the clouds. We pulled Johnson inside. There was no more cheer or encouragement from him. He drank some tepid water and slipped into unconsciousness. I'm afraid he has a severe concussion.

We made it over the Pass, but Paul is in a bad state. Grale's foot is one purple blister. We're so close-we're ruined.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

**Day 19**

Woke up in the clouds again. Don't know at what time. Probably wasn't but felt like -40F.

Took me over half an hour to make them wake up. Brutal and cruel, I flogged them into consciousness. Even so Johnson remained unresponsive, no light in his eyes. To my questions whether he was in pain he said no. His monosyllables were random, I fear.

Then Grale looked out at the poor visibility and stated that we should stay in the tent. It was the first time since leaving Base Camp that he and I squared off. We argued while Johnson lay in between us, dull and uncaring. It made me livid, and powerless, and it took a long time of useless bickering before I thought of the solution.

I told him he could stay but I'd take Johnson and all the gear. We both looked at his foot, a swollen, purple bag of something it is hardly recognizable as a foot or even as flesh. If he was thinking of overpowering me, the sight of it made him realize he was no match for me. I could just dismantle everything around him and walk away. And he knew I would have.

He screamed and nearly passed out when he jammed his foot into his boot even after we cut it open on one side.

Bones, I have never seen such ruin. To see Grale scream like that after fighting with him nearly took all my sanity. Then I had to break up camp all by myself. I move so slowly, forget what I am doing. I couldn't even buckle my overcoat, half my fingers unresponsive.

Looking at Johnson in his mindless stupor I almost envied him. Just wanted to lie down and sleep. It took me over two hours to pack it all up, even though we now have very little left to pack. I contemplated leaving the stove and the fuel cell behind, since there are only 1 or 2 charges left, but those may save us, in the end. Then again, having to carry their extra weight might also push us over… Why is everything so difficult? Even the simplest decisions are impossible.

Looking at my hands and Grale's foot and into Johnson's eyes it struck me that we are using ourselves up, that the mountain is grinding away at us and we can only hope that there will be enough of us left, just enough, to reach the compound and dial through. After that we can rest, however we will rest.

After breakup we dragged ourselves through the thick, wet cloud, sliding down more than anything else, descending rapidly only half caring whether we fell into a crevasse or went over a ledge. The compound is at 9,000 feet but I lost any concept of where we were. Close? More than once I panicked, sure that I had lost the trail. What if we walked past it? We'd walk past it and have to climb back up. We could be walking for days, weeks…

Johnson screeched, shattering the eerie silence and the downward spiral of my thoughts. He collapsed in a heap, blabbering hysterically. My heart burst with concern and dread. We calmed him down and finally he managed to articulate, in the voice of ruin and pointing a trembling, ruined hand at the vanishing path behind us:

_There's someone. There._

My mind conjured up the darkest of shadows bearing down on us and I nearly threw up from fright.

How I pulled myself together, I don't know. We slogged on. I _pulled _them along, like chattel. I don't know for how long. I lost the stopwatch. We broke free of the clouds but it was so dark, or my vision was so dimmed, that I could barely distinguish our surroundings.

We're so close, so close. Tomorrow we might make it. But will we even wake up? This morning was almost more than I could bear. What if we go to sleep and don't wake up?

I'm not going to write anymore. As you can see from the handwriting my hands are very bad.

I'm sorry.

If we don't make it, if someone finds this, let them know that on stardate 3455.8 the Federation shuttle _Audubon_ was caught in a blizzard and lightning storm and crashed to coordinates 86˚10' 3" S, 150˚ 9' E. The shuttle was piloted by the Ignis miners' Commander Nelson Davis, whose skills prevented the loss of many lives though he lost his own. Also on board were:

Commanding and Science Officer Spock (wounded and remained in a coma)

Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy

Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott

Ensign Pavel Chekov

Chief Meteorologist Suji Xiao

Chief Geologist Aaron Ricks (wounded)

Geologist Sam Argyle

Nurse Alden Chang

Security Chief Lieutenant Paul Johnson

Second Lieutenant Wendell Fry

Second Lieutenant Ayer Lasky

Third Lieutenant Wynn Irving

Also, the miners we were transporting to Starbase:

Commander Nelson Davis (killed)

Miner Rayan Grale

Miner Reeve

Miner Stack

All these men performed admirably in the face of hardship and certain danger.

A rescue party was formed consisting of myself, Johnson, and Grale. Let it be known that Lieutenant Johnson and Rayan Grale were outstanding and unwavering in the performance of their duty, and that the failure of this mission lies entirely with me, James Tiberius Kirk, Captain of the USS Starship Enterprise.

God help us.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

They were three men, lost in the blizzard under the screaming mountain. But there were long stretches of time when not one of them would have defined himself as _a man_. One was a hollow shell with eyes of glass, the last of his mind snuffed out when he surrendered his sanity to death, on his heels. Another, though he was built for this environment, had a heavy limp and often cried out in pain and anger. The third was the leader, smaller, quiet, with fiercely burning eyes and a bloody face mask. He was reduced to one thought:

_I am a wedge._

Their descent was hasty, driven by gravity and the wind more than any conscious thought. That they avoided several death traps was a matter of sheer luck, for they were unaware of them snapping at their ankles just a foot away. The snow was three feet deep and crusted over but not so hard that it could bear their weight. More snow kept coming, large, heavy snowflakes whipped into a suffocating veil by the howling wind.

The leader knew he was as close to giving up as he had ever been in his hard and difficult and beautiful life. When "I am a wedge" failed to hold him up, he switched to the conscious inventory of his body. Muscles screaming, heart fluttering, his head near to exploding, numb fingers that intermittently were dead or caught fire, and the tearing sounds in his lungs with each agonized breath. The ruin of his body made him _angry_. The anger kept him awake, kept him going.

The rope jerked and he fell back into the furrow he had ploughed, landing hard on the pack strapped to his back. He bit down on a scream of pain and panicked, for a moment, brought back to himself but not remembering what he was doing, where he was going. Then he made an angry sound, struggled to his knees and feet and crawled, following the rope.

He found his two men.

"He's done!" Grale yelled over the howling wind.

"Set up camp!"

Kirk and Grale fought the wind for the tent. Kirk pounded in the anchors with spite and crawled in last. He found Grale asleep and woke him rudely.

"Get the stove out, Commander Grale," he ordered.

The man obeyed automatically. They lit the fire, put some snow in a pan to melt.

Kirk buckled under an attack of pain.

"Head bad, Captain?" the miner asked.

Kirk managed to smile. "It'll pass," he lied. He then studied his hands like they weren't part of him at all.

For truly they were all three wreckage.

They drank the lukewarm water and poured some into Johnson's mouth.

"We're close. I know it," Kirk said.

"I think so too."

"How is your foot?"

Grale shook his head. They hesitated for a few seconds before Kirk took out his knife and cut the boot off the left foot. Grale gagged when he saw it. Kirk handed him the flask and he took a pull, grunting with gratitude.

"Does it hurt?" Kirk asked.

"Nah," the colonist lied.

They both smiled grimly.

"Listen, Rayan, we both know that if we sit here much longer, we're dead."

"We can leave Johnson in the tent. Move on," Grale said.

"It doesn't look like you're going anywhere, mate," Kirk said softly. He got to his knees. "But I can make it. Stay with Johnson, keep each other warm. Use the last fuel if you need to." He closed his torn overcoat. His trembling fingers could hardly handle the latches. "It's maybe another five miles. I'll take nothing, I'll be quick."

Grale was suddenly frantic, caught up in Kirk's desperate urgency. "Aim for the pylon!" he hurried. "It has a red flare mounted on it. Remember, the compound's surrounded by barbed wire. It's minimal, there's not even a gate, just an opening. But it's _there_. There's a cargo elevator at the base of the pylon, like at _Alpha Camp_. You'll find the control room and the supplies room, easy."

Kirk put a hand on the miner's arm. "I'll call them in, restock, and come straight back to get you. But if I'm not back in ten hours, if the weather turns, maybe your foot is better-try it then. _Not earlier_. I can do it. I'll be back."

He opened the flap and threw himself out into the blizzard. A hand caught his arm.

"Don't go!" Grale shouted. Kirk could see the fear in the man's hard, ravaged face.

"I have to!" Kirk yelled. "Stay here, stay together. No one should be alone!"

"What about _you_?"

Kirk didn't hesitate.

"I am the Captain," he said, simply.

His voice hadn't carried. Grale could not have heard.

0000000

If wasn't fair. The mountain had kept them alive. In their most perilous moments it had held its breath and let them pass. All for this. If he failed, they'd all die, not just the two in the tent, but his wounded and starving crew and friends in the shuttle.

_Stop it. Failure is not an option._

His body no longer felt like it was his. Brutally abused by the cold, wind and ice, it was finally buckling. His heart beat irregularly, his chest had the volume of a drinking glass. Each footfall drove a consuming fire through his legs, his spine. He had been lucky with his feet but now he could no longer feel his toes. An hour after leaving the tent he had gone into an uncontrolled slide down a crevasse and his right glove had snagged and been lost. That hand, shoved into his jacket, was senseless and he was grateful for it. He would not look at it.

One step after another, that's what he had been reduced to. A machine for taking one step after another. Walking into nothingness, with no dea where he was, where he was going. He had lost the path.

Then he heard the crack – more like a piece of fabric ripping - and a moment later he crashed through the ice. He flung out his arms and stopped his fall. His heart pounding, he tried to move his legs. Not thin air, but powdery snow. How deep? He kicked around in it, churning it, but it afforded no support. If he slipped through, if the crust caved, he'd suffocate before reaching the bottom, before freezing to death.

He stopped trashing. The broken shards of the crust cut into his chest and back. Only his outstretched arms, shaking with exertion, his shoulders, on fire, and his hands, scratching like claws in the ice, kept him from sliding into the grave. The wind blew snow against his shoulders and the back of his hood.

Anger rose in him and he howled, then had to stop, too breathless. He sobbed and, just before he closed his eyes, saw it.

Blink.

Blink.

He opened his eyes wide, thinking for a moment it was their companion, the one Johnson had seen following them.

_A beacon. The compound!_

The snow closed over the vision.

Incredibly he found the strength to pull himself out.

On hands and knees he crawled in the direction of the red blinking light. There it was again. Howling he crawled, like an animal, and then the pylon appeared in the blowing snow.

He remembered Grale saying something about barbed wire.

_Too late._

Something tore at his face – he didn't feel it, just heard it, a smaller equivalent of the ice tearing. Then the metal hook was right next to his eye. He pulled back, but couldn't. He was caught. The barbed wire had him.

_But I'm here, _he thought, not understanding. _I made it!_

He lifted a hand, as if to beckon, or to offer up that part of his body, or to wave goodbye.

_Goodbye._


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

"Doctor?"

Scott approached McCoy carefully. Everyone but one on board the _Audubon_ had sunk into lethargy - one deeper than the other, but apathy was the general mood. They were too cold, too weak from hunger. They lay down or shuffled around, shivered, coughed and groaned and tried not to think about food or a warm shower.

They were hopeless - yes, that especially, without hope. All but one.

That one was Leonard McCoy. The Doctor was so restless the slightest noise made him jump. His energy was of the frenzied sort and hard to witness, since it hollowed him out twice as fast. His wiry frame now looked so thin he looked like he might break if you touched him. Yet he kept on hovering over all of them who were now his patients, attending to them with a fouler temper than he had displayed even at massive battlefields.

So when Scott coughed quietly to get the Doctor's attention, he was prepared for the man's reaction. McCoy snapped an impatient "_Yes_?" and shot him a quick lethal glance from sunken, feverish eyes. And it wouldn't have surprised Scott if there was an actual fever behind the flush on the man's face. Still the low-grade fever, from which he too suffered off and on, did nothing to abate the shivering…

"Ah, Scotty, it's you," mumbled McCoy. "Sorry."

The Doctor sank down heavily onto the chair at his messy desk. The main cabin was Sickbay now, really, and this small alcove had become McCoy's private room, shared with the lifeless, ghostly body of Spock, hidden behind the curtain. None of the men visited the First Officer anymore.

"You should take it easier, Doctor," Scott ventured.

"I know, I know. I just…" McCoy sighed and turned away to check some data on his tricordor.

Scott saw his chance slip away. And he needed to talk. As the commanding officer of this vessel, he needed information. He needed support.

But he knew not to go for _this one_ directly.

"I wonder how you do it, Leonard, where you get the energy."

Involuntarily he took a step back when McCoy spun around and, for the first time in many days, looked him straight in the eye.

"You _wonder_, Scotty?" he spat, suddenly furious. "It's been twenty-four days since Jim left! Twenty-four…"

It was as much as the Doctor could afford. He slumped, depleted, and shook his head, but continued.

"What has come of him, Scotty? It's not fair, that we don't know-_hell_, let's be honest, that he can't be with us. Yeah, you want to know what drives me? It's anger. I'm angry with himbecause he left us on this doomed mission. Because he had to recklessly sacrifice himself all over again. Because he put himself so totally beyond my help. And I'm angry with _myself_ because I can't separate my fear for him from my fear for us, for _me. _Jim knew-he _knows_ what starvation is. He never told me about Tarsus but I've read the damn file. I feel-I suspect he didn't want to be here when that happened to us. Oh, I know I'm not being fair to him, but… We're totally buried now, too deep to dig ourselves out, and who would have the strength? Do you _know_ what we're looking at here, Scotty?"

"I know, Doctor," said Scott soberly. "I have already planned for that."

McCoy looked at the Engineer in surprise.

"You've considered it?" he asked.

"Of course, Doctor. My duty just like yours is to keep these men alive for as long as possible."

McCoy frowned. "I-I never thought others were thinking about this as well," he stammered.

"Of course we are, Doctor. We need you to… make preparations."

Scott cursed himself. He had gone over it in his head, but now he couldn't even _say_ it! The horror roared in him and he swallowed to keep the acid bile from flooding his mouth.

McCoy suddenly sat up very straight.

"I'll need help preparing Commander Davis's body," he said with determination. "Listen, if Jim is out there fighting for us, we'd better make sure we're alive when he gets back to us!"


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

"Boss! What's that!"

Stephenson leaned over Savvy's shoulder, peering at the screen.

"Have your eyes checked, mate. It's just snow. Just snow horses."

He was about to turn away when he saw it too.

"What the-zoom in on that!"

"It's a man, Boss, a man caught in the wire!"


	32. Chapter 32

A/N : Posting this on the same day as Chapter 31 because louiseb called me a tease!

**Part Three**

**Chapter 32**

Stephenson looked at the unconscious man in the bed. This must be the worst case of exposure he had ever seen. Beneath the angry red abrasions and one nasty bruise, the man's face was white as a sheet with an unmistakable tinge of blue. Doc Dax had explained it was due to pulmonary edema resulting in critically low blood oxygen levels. The ventilator forced rapid, shallow breaths on the patient, and each time his chest moved a papery sound came from within.

Stephenson was a tough guy, but that sound made him cringe and the frantic beeping of the heart monitor set his teeth on edge.

"How is he?"

"Still critical, Boss," said Dax. "He's a fighter, though. The men are betting he'll make it twelve to one."

"I know," Stephenson grumbled. "I'm the one. That's because I'm also the only one who has seen him since we brought him in. Looks bloody awful. Looks _impossible_."

"Doesn't it," said Dax, shaking his head. "So, Grale's off?" he said to steer them toward a happier topic.

"Yeah. He couldn't wait to get outta here."

"Good riddance," said Dax.

Stephenson murmured in agreement.

0000000

The alarms woke Dax from his slumber in his room adjoining Sick Bay. He rushed to the patient's side, understanding the situation in one glance. Kirk, eyes wide open, was jerking violently against the straps that held him down, but it was not with a seizure. The Captain was, despite the paralytics, very agitated, and he was, despite the sedatives, very deliberate.

Dax put his hand on the patient's shoulder.

"Captain Kirk!" he said loudly enough to make himself heard over the noise of the machines, "settle down, settle down!"

Kirk's roving eyes caught Dax, and the Doctor winced at the intensity he saw there. He calmed down only marginally – Dax guessed he needed the agitation to fight the sedatives – and opened his mouth. No sound came out, of course, because of the endotracheal tube, but Dax could read his lips:

_Men?_

"Your men are all fine, Captain," Dax hurried. Seeing that his patient wouldn't calm down without further information, he added: "They were rescued, all alive, all of them, but if you don't settle down you won't be and wouldn't that be a shame?"

The Captain stopped fighting against his bonds to give Dax one brief look, then his eyes closed and he sank back into the bed.

Dax and straightened, released the breath he had been holding.

_What was that look?_ he wondered.

He began to check and rearrange tubes, reset the machines, but he couldn't get that look out of his mind. There had been relief there, but only very briefly before it was ruined with pain and distrust. Dax shook his head, his own feelings about this situation conflicted.

It was hope, yes, but… unwelcome. Feared.

00000000

Kirk repeated his question to Stephenson three days later. He was calm now and fully, if precariously conscious. Dax had removed the breathing tube and replaced it with an oxygen mask, which Kirk kept pulling off and Dax kept replacing.

"My-men," the Captain gasped in a broken voice. He swallowed painfully, fighting a cough. Coughing was an ordeal beyond measure that went on until it brought up frothy blood and brought him to the brink of unconsciousness.

"They were all fine," Stephenson answered considerately. He stood frankly staring at the man, and Dax knew it was with astonishment and not a small amount of admiration. "We found the journal on your body. It told us where to find Grale and your other man. Grale then sent the coordinates of the _Audubon_ to Alpha Camp. They relayed it to the Federation rescue team which was planetside. It took them another thirty hours to make it through, but your crew was found just as they were sitting down to the last meal they had in stock. They were transported to the _Enterprise _without incident."

Kirk took a second to take this all in. If he felt or thought anything at all his pale face didn't betray it.

"Spock?"

"Excuse me?"

"Did _Spock-_make it?"

There was urgency there. Dax thought that Spock must mean a lot to this man.

"I'm sorry, I don't know who Spock is," said Stephenson. "Our communication with Alpha Camp is minimal. There is no way of finding out at present."

The light in Kirk's eyes had been growing more intense during the interview, and now it blazed and speared Stephenson.

"Who-_are-_you?" Kirk demanded with a gasp.

So it broke, all the furious emotion this man was capable of: bewilderment, anger and, above all, distrust.

What Kirk was saying was, _Why should I believe you?_ In his eyes, no one was safe yet. He was still fighting for his men.

The Commander was prepared for it. He was no fool. He took a deep breath before answering.

"I know," he finally said. "We're not supposed to be here. But, Captain, we are, and that is all I will say on this score. And I assure you, Grale _did_ make the call to Alpha Camp and your men _were _rescued. But he made that call as the sole survivor of the rescue party. Your men believe you and your Lieutenant died in a crevasse, your bodies irrecoverable. No one can know that you are here, because they can't know that _we_ are here."

Kirk closed his eyes for a moment, Dax was unsure whether it was conceal his emotions or from exhaustion. When he half opened his eyes again they were fathomless.

"John-son?" Kirk asked quietly.

The Commander looked at Dax.

"He was close to death when we got to him," the Doctor offered. "Cerebral edema. We have him suspended in a coma but I'm afraid he is slowly failing. I assure you I am doing all I can for him."

"Not all," Kirk whispered, and slipped into unconsciousness.

"No," said Dax softly to his oblivious patient. "Only what I _can _do."

"What a waste," said Stephenson. He sighed, turned away and left.

Dax gently replaced the oxygen mask.


	33. Chapter 33

**Happy Thanksgiving, everyone**

**Chapter 33**

Kirk had been conscious for a while now, and Dax had kept himself available in the small Sick Bay. He was ready when the Captain pulled away the oxygen mask and gasped,

"What's—wrong—with me?"

Dax put down the equipment he had been sterilizing and regarded the patient from across his desk. His condition had improved over the last twenty hours. The pleural drain was finally making a dent in the fluids in his lungs, and he would soon be off the mask and onto a nasal canula. Dax had upgraded him out of the critical range - it had been the first time he had seen the Boss happy about losing a bet.

But there was no denying that the cost to the patient had been considerable. And now that he was fully conscious, he was also trying to assess his physical condition. The painkillers were surely masking any sensations, but there was no avoiding the continued difficulty breathing and the presence of the machines, the bandages.

What Dax had seen of this man so far told him to give him the news straight. He watched Kirk's response closely.

"Your most immediate discomfort is due to pulmonary edema, fluid accumulation in your lungs. That's why you're so short of breath, you're on about 50% of normal lung capacity, when not in distress. The treatment is working but it's important that we prevent you from coughing up more blood and doing more damage, so don't overexert yourself. Coughing also aggravates your broken and bruised ribs. An older injury?"

Kirk's face remained closed and, aside from the strain of having to struggle for air, revealed no emotions. He was, simply, waiting for the rest.

"Then," Dax pressed on, "there is the fact that you were hypothermic for an extended period of time. This has affected your heart and you are receiving treatment for cardiac arrhythmia. Your heart is strong, and with time it should right itself, but it is again imperative that you do rest."

He wasn't done yet, and Kirk knew it.

"As for your external injuries, you have lost all fingers on your right hand, the two smallest ones on your left hand, two toes on your right foot and I'm still assessing your left foot. Once you get out of here the Federation physicians will be able to replace these, but anything other than some crude prostheses is beyond my skill and technology. Other injuries are minor and pose no threat or permanent damage."

A few seconds, then a narrowing of the eyes.

"You say—'once—you get—out of—here'."

_Finally, _Dax thought, _a reaction_. The words, though hard-won, barely whispers in between gasps, were sharp with contempt. Dax took care to answer in as neutral a tone as possible.

"I will leave the details to Commander Stephenson, but I can tell you that when we are done here, it is our intention to return you and Lieutenant Johnson to Starfleet, alive and as well as we can manage."

Kirk turned his head away in a stubborn _no_.

Dax approached carefully. The Captain's face was a mask of anger, or fear, or grief – Dax couldn't tell. His eyes were shut tight. His lower lip, pressed tight, trembled. Dax said nothing. He gently replaced the mask over his patient's mouth.

00000000

Two days later Kirk was back in control of himself. His breathing was easier too, and he no longer had to struggle with the mask as he was upgraded to a nasal canula. All this helped him pull off the perfectly arrogant tone.

"And why should I believe you?"

_Defiant. Superior. It's how he would confront a Klingon! _Dax thought.

"I have played the recording of Grale's call and the confirmation from Alpha Base that the rescue was successful," Stephenson sighed.

"Falsified," Kirk retorted.

"You are still alive," Stephenson came back.

Dax could see his Boss was rapidly tiring to this game.

"I'd fetch a good price, I've been told."

Flippant.

Stephenson bristled.

"I give you my word!" he rejoined.

"And I give you my word, Commander," with sudden vehemence, "that the moment-you let me go I will hunt-you down, you and-all your men!"

_That_ took the wind out of him. He paled, his head fell back against the pillow. The bio alarm sounded a few anxious beeps.

When Dax looked up at his Boss, the latter had recovered.

"Then I think we have established, Captain Kirk," Stephenson said grimly, "when the real test of my assertion will come. You will just have to wait until then!"

He turned on his heel and walked out of Sickbay.

"Why," Dax began, barely able to conceal his fascination, "do you play with fire? If you think he is your enemy, why push him?"

He was astonished to see a tight smile appear on Kirk's lips.

"I push, he pushes…" The Captain attempted with affected indolence, but some bitterness slipped in. "Let's just say, Doc, that I don't want to wait that long."


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 30**

_He was drowning. His mouth was stuffed with snow. He struggled to draw breath through the ice packed in his throat and lungs. It was all around him, pressing in on him, gluing his eyelids shut, pinning his arms and legs to his side…_

Kirk was trembling violently, as if very cold despite his raging fever. He was rattling the bed, straining the straps. Dax pushed down on his forehead to hold him still as he forced the oxygen mask over his mouth. His skin was hot and dry, but the flush was quickly turning to blue.

"Captain Kirk! Wake up!"

Kirk's eyes now flew open, pupils contracting to a pinprick in a cataract of flaming gold.

"Breathe!" Dax yelled. "Breathe!"

Kirk was panicking. His open mouth was wide open under the mask, his chest was heaving, but he was not drawing breath. The console told Dax his lungs were clear enough. They also told him his heart was stuttering.

"You're _clear_!" Dax yelled into Kirk's terrified eyes. "You can breathe!"

_Come on come on_.

Kirk gasped, drawing a little oxygen from the mask.

"Again! Again!"

Deeper, calmer. He could see the Captain, with inhuman effort, pulling himself together.

"Good, easy now." Dax allowed himself a breath. He took his hand off Kirk's forehead but held the mask in place for another minute. "Easy now, you're fine, you're fine."

Slowly oxygen levels and rhythm normalized and the trembling subsided. Kirk's temperature dropped and the heart monitor stopped beeping. After a while Dax removed the mask.

"Okay now?" he asked while undoing the straps.

Kirk, still trembling a little, rolled over onto his side and curled up.

"I—I don't understand," he whispered, his teeth chattering, "I was in a snow hole. It wasn't real. I'm still cold! Am I going crazy?"

"Captain Kirk," said Dax, firmly so as to conceal any tone of pity, "after what you've been through and considering what you're going through, I wouldn't blame myself for going a little crazy. But you need to _believe_. What if we're not lying, but through your stubborn distrust of us you weaken yourself to… to _this_. You nearly died."

"It's not that," Kirk pleaded, biting down on the shivering. "I _want _to live. I want to... I'm so tired, so _cold-w__hy_ would you rescue my men?"

Dax thought carefully for a second before answering.

"The Starfleet rescue team was being very thorough, widening the search. They would have found us. It was the only way to get them off the planet."

"They wouldn't have believed Grale, that Johnson and I died."

"They read your journal, Captain," said Dax quietly, shaking his head. "In it you state that Grale saved your lives several times. You made him into their hero. And believe me, he played it."

Kirk remained silent, thinking as he shivered, slowly fading. Dax put his hand on the Captain's arm, and held it there until the shaking was done and the patient asleep.

00000000

He found Stephenson in the mess, unenthusiastically filling in paper work next to a plate of untouched food. Since their last encounter, five days ago, Stephenson had avoided Sick Bay. Dax had heard about the Boss's unusually foul temper. Obviously neither man had benefited from their cold war.

He parked himself in front of his Commander.

"To all intents and purposes Captain Kirk should be recovering," he stated. "But he's not. On the contrary, he's slipping back. Just now he nearly suffocated on snow that wasn't there. If this goes on, Boss, he'll be dead within the week."

Stephenson was looking up at him, annoyance rapidly surrendering to resignation.

"Maybe that's—" he began, but closed his mouth.

The two men regarded each other with unconcealed trepidation.

"Forget I nearly said that," Stephenson snapped.

"I will," retorted Dax, which made Stephenson look at him closely.

"Explain his condition, then."

"He is fighting but his subconscious is working against him, throwing him debilitating nightmares. And it's no surprise. He's a Starship Captain, for God's sake, and we keep him confined to a space the size of… of a bed. He sees only me. And he doesn't trust us, the uncertainty of his men's fate eats him up—"

Stephenson made a gesture of frustration, which made Dax throw up his hands.

_If the Boss wants Kirk dead…_

"Okay!" Stephenson said quickly. "Okay. What do we do?"

"We let him out of there. If he turns it around he'll soon be ready for a wheel chair. We introduce him to the men. They're dying to meet him."

Stephenson nodded slowly.

"Okay, but you stay with him at all times. He meant what he said, about escaping, giving us away, hunting us down. I can't say I blame him, but I won't take any risks."


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

"This is for you," Dax said, gently placing a PADD on his patient's lap.

Kirk looked down at the image on the screen, not comprehending. Then he recognized it, and stared. It was his own handwriting.

_Thank you, Bones, for this notebook…_

It was like something hit him in the chest.

"Grale took the original back to Alpha Camp," Dax went on, his keen green eyes on his patient, "but not before Stephenson made a copy of it. We've all of us read it, many times over. I hope you don't mind."

Kirk had to remind himself to breathe. He took a breath but the feeling of suffocation only grew as he stared at the page, not remembering what he had written there and terrified of the thought of remembering it.

"Scroll to the list at the end."

Automatically the two remaining fingers of his left hand, sticking out of the bandage, trembling, pressed a button on the PADD. Navigating to the end of the file didn't require a lot of dexterity.

When he hit the page, the deterioration in the handwriting shocked him. It was no longer recognizable as his. He didn't remember writing it.

"Read it," Dax prompted him gently.

_Why was Dax doing this to him?_

But he did, his lips soundlessly forming the words.

_The shuttle was piloted by the Ignis miners' Commander Nelson Davis, whose skills prevented the loss of many lives though he lost his own. Also on board were:_

_Commanding and Science Officer Spock (wounded and remained in a coma)_

_Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy_

_Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott_

_Ensign Pavel Chekov_

_Chief Meteorologist Suji Xiao_

_Chief Geologist Aaron Ricks (wounded)_

_Geologist Sam Argyle_

_Nurse Alden Chang _

_Security Chief Lieutenant Paul Johnson_

_Second Lieutenant Wendell Fry_

_Second Lieutenant Ayer Lasky_

_Third Lieutenant Wynn Irving_

_Also, the miners we were transporting to Starbase:_

_Commander Nelson Davis (killed)_

_Miner Rayan Grale_

_Miner Reeve _

_Miner Stack_

_All these men performed admirably in the face of hardship and certain danger. _

_A rescue party was formed consisting of myself, Johnson, and Grale. Let it be known that Lieutenant Johnson and Rayan Grale were outstanding and unwavering in the performance of their duty, and that the failure of this mission lies entirely with me, James Tiberius Kirk, Captain of the USS Starship Enterprise._

_God help us._

Kirk closed his eyes.

"Those last four men were _our_ men," Dax said softly. "You saved them. Yes, you saved even Commander Davis. We believe in burial rites here. We hate the idea of one of ours lost, forever, alone in the ice."

Kirk thought of Spock and McCoy - _if_ they were alive - thinking _him_ buried in the ice. The pressure in his chest and head was such that he had to close his eyes for a moment.

"Is anyone missing?" Dax asked suddenly.

Kirk opened his eyes and looked up at Dax.

"I—I don't think so!" He looked back down, almost violently, and reread the list, frowning with concentration. "No," he said. "They're all here."

"What about their Captain? What about _you_?"

"I—" Kirk began, closed his mouth. He read the list again. Dax was right, he had forgotten himself. An anger rose in him. "What is this?" he snapped. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you're not on that list because you're here now, with us. _Accept_ it. Listen, the work here is routine, the team established. Nothing ever happens, we're used to each other-In your line of work I guess it's different and I'm sure your CMO gets to practice his skills as a mental adviser. What I'm saying is, I'm not a psychologist, so stop making it so difficult!"

Kirk couldn't help but smile a little.

"The Boss," Dax went on, a little relieved, "has given permission for you to move about the compound, to meet the men. Would that help?"

Kirk stared at him. They were going to let him out, meet the others? That meant that he would have a chance to find some things out for himself. And he still wouldn't have to trust them…

"Can I _talk_ to them?" he asked, too cautiously to his own ears.

"Yes," said Dax with a small smile. "But the subjects of your conversations will be somewhat restricted, of course."

Kirk's thoughtful nod turned to one of agreement. He'd play along. At least there would be some breathing space.

Then he dropped his own bombshell.

"I want to see Johnson."

000000000

Paul Johnson. The man who had pulled him through when he was down with altitude sickness. The man who had saved his life several times on away missions.

Kirk had reread the journal several times now, hunting for clues, to what, he knew not, but he felt like it had some explaining to do, for one, as to why Johnson was in this state.

The Lieutenant's body was perforated with tubes and drains, afloat in a vat of liquid. Kirk had enough experience with bio monitors to know that there was next to no brain activity. Johnson was so deeply in a coma, he was but a fraction from death.

"Starfleet could _help_ him," he whispered angrily. He feared that if he didn't keep his voice down, he'd explode in rage. His useless hands lay in his lap, powerless even to grip the wheelchair's armrests.

Dax, standing next to him, sighed.

"For what it's worth, I don't think so." Then, very quietly, "Not anymore."

Kirk slammed down on his anger. It would be useless. It would tire him out. He would keep it close to keep himself from sliding into the mistake of trusting this man.

"You're tired. I'll take you back," said Dax, and he laid his hand on Kirk's shoulder.

Kirk, tense to the breaking point, flinched.

Dax immediately retracted his hand.

"Why can't you trust me?" he asked softly.

"You think I've never been in a situation like this, Doc?" Kirk began, and despite his promise to himself his voice rose as he went on. "I've been held hostage, crippled, like this. When I relaxed to their touch, I was beaten. When I trusted one of them, I was betrayed. Do you know how hard it is to keep yourself going, knowing that you're dependent on help but that each helping hand can turn into a fist? And how much _harder_ it is when in just one trusting moment you let them explode you from inside, and then to come back from _that_?"

Dax waited to let Kirk catch his breath. Then he cautiously steered the chair back to Sickbay, where he helped the exhausted Captain into the bed.


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

_He found himself floundering in murky water on one small lungful of air. He kicked up with his legs but almost immediately his head hit a ceiling. Fighting the sudden sense of confinement, he cast about for a gap, a door, a way out of the cage. The cloudy water was layered with currents so saturated with a flaky substance they afforded little visibility. Then he discerned a dark shape, a hole perhaps. His lungs bursting, he released some air and started swimming toward it._

_But then he saw. He almost cried out. He thrashed to slow his approach but his momentum brought him too close to the jelly-fishlike creature that floated there. Just inches away from the pale, eyeless rag of a face he managed to reverse his advance by pushing off against the water, but the thing was caught in his wake and pulled towards him. Then his back hit a wall and the bloated thing stormed at him, filling his vision with white, spongy flesh so weakened by the brine it had separated and loosened._

_He raised a hand to ward it off but his hand was a knot of bone protruding from a cloud of flesh wafting in the currents._

_Screaming, he surfaced._

"You alright?" asked Dax, looming over him.

Kirk concentrated on drawing breath, not succumbing to the pounding in his head. His heart was beating so violently he had to make an effort to calm it down. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he wiped it away with a bandaged hand.

Dax did not budge. His concerned eyes darted between Kirk's face and the heart monitor.

"I'm okay," Kirk said through clenched teeth, if only to get the Doctor to leave him alone for a moment.

"I'll be the judge of that," Dax muttered.

It took a couple of minutes before Kirk was himself satisfied that his heart had handled it, but his relief was tempered by the all-too familiar feeling of hopelessness over his debilitated body. Dax too seemed content, and to Kirk's relief, he didn't ask what had just happened.

"I thought," the Doctor said cautiously instead, "that before you meet the crew, we might work on your right hand."

Kirk shuddered. He looked at his hand as if the bandages were hiding something sinister that had attached itself to his body.

"We're limited here," Dax went on, "but at least I can give you a working thumb, index finger and middle finger. It'll allow you to manipulate things and to rest on a crutch, once you're able to."

Kirk nodded, distracted by his thoughts. He remembered the sight of Grale's foot, that block of black, peeling flesh. He remembered McCoy's dire warnings about frostbite.

_And that's what happened, _he told himself, hard. _It happened to me. _

He remembered the slide down the crevasse, losing his mitten, the stinging pain that had dulled incredibly fast to a throbbing. Then the nothingness of numb flesh.

_And so I lost it. It's lost._

Up until now his worries had been for his breathing and his heart, and his precarious mental state. The state of his hands had been a real nuisance that required Dax to do everything for him, and as such they had rendered his feelings of helplessness more acute. But somehow his brain had kept the issue in the background. Even when Dax had changed the dressings, his mind had bid him to look away.

Now the fatalism he had fought so diligently among his crew on the _Audubon_ and in his rescue team, and even in himself, broke upon him and he almost panicked.

_God, what am I to do without hands!_

To pull himself away from the abyss he thrust his right hand at Dax, like a hasty offering.

"Show me. I need to see it," he said urgently.

Dax nodded and gingerly removed the bandage. Kirk stared when the last of it was unwound.

_Not_ like in the dream. Not recognizable either, or particularly pleasing, but clean… uncontaminated. The thumb was shorn off at the root, but of the other fingers the knuckles and small stumps remained. He looked closely while flexing the muscles. His hand was stiff, but everything seemed to work.

He could almost _feel_ his fingers, his fingertips… They felt cold.

"As you can see, though you lost the fingers, I did manage to save the hand. Of the fingers enough remains that your Federation doctors can graft on new bone and on that regenerate nerves, muscles, flesh and skin. No one, not even you, will ever notice. Like I said,_ I_ can't do that, but I have some prostheses. They don't look natural, not by a long shot, and you won't have the dexterity you're used to, but you'll find them serviceable enough."

"How long will it take?"

"I can set them right now. It's not a pleasant surgery, though," Dax said, "and the first twelve hours are pretty painful as it's best to go without local anesthetic. It's in fact the pain that will make your brain take control while the prosthetic nerve-endings connect to your own severed nerves. Are you sure you're up for that?"

Grimacing, Kirk nodded.

"Let's do it, Doc," he said.

"Good," said Dax, readying his instruments. "If we work hard at it, then after 48 hours you'll have the sensation and motor control to pick up your pen again."


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

Stephenson halted in the open door.

Captain Kirk was sitting up in the bed, practicing his right hand grip on a small metal tumbler set on a tray in front of him. Stephenson was used to seeing Dax's prostheses. The Doc, knowing the things would always look odd, opted not to cover the black alloy with artificial skins, and no one ever had a problem with that. Several of his men had them, fingers and toes. So did he, the two smallest toes on his left foot – who knew you needed those to be able to walk normally.

So Stephenson also knew the agony of getting them to work, the rawness of freshly opened wounds and of nerves fusing, muscles reaching. You basically had to relive the most painful part of the frostbite that took your digits in the first place: the searing pain of nerve endings dying back, only now in reverse.

Stephenson could only imagine what that must mean to Kirk.

Also, in Stephenson's experience, never had the patient been in the general state Kirk was in. The Captain's whole arm was trembling with the pain and exertion. The sweat was pouring down his face, a fierce frown of concentration and frustration.

Stephenson pondered why the sight of this man in difficulty bothered him so. Was it the combination of the Captain's obvious strength of character – both fabled and proven – and his present predicament that wrenched so? They were not contradictory, on the contrary, but…

A quiet cough behind him in the corridor interrupted his thoughts. He stepped back and turned to face the Doctor.

"How long has he been at it?" he asked, keeping his voice down.

Dax consulted his PADD.

"Eight hours." He sighed. "He won't sleep, Boss. You know it's not possible without a sedative, and he won't have it."

"Stubborn son-of-a-"

There was a crunching sound followed by a loud crash. Dax and Stephenson ran in to see the tumbler, half crushed, roll pathetically on the floor.

"Well, at least you managed to pick it up and throw it!" Dax grumbled.

"Thanks," Kirk snapped back. "Want to shake my hand?"

He extended the hand, trembling, raw, alien. The three men stared it for a second, then burst out laughing.

"No thanks," Dax said, grinning. He picked up the tumbler and set it back on the tray on Kirk's lap. "But you'd better keep practicing on this one."

Stephenson stepped in before Kirk, intent on ignoring him, turned to his exercise again.

"Captain Kirk," he began, "the Doc here tells me you'll be up and about in a day or two. We need to lay down some rules and agreements."

Kirk looked up, a small smile on his flushed face. His eyes didn't seem quite right to Stephenson, too feverish somehow, or on the brink of somewhere not quite in the room, but confrontational enough.

"The only _agreement_ I can make, Commander Stephenson," Kirk said, "is that I will take advantage of any and every opportunity to get out of here, whether that means breaking the rules, or following them."

Stephenson couldn't help but smile, and something in his troubled view of Kirk shifted to a better place.

"Nevertheless I will inform you of the rules, Captain, as well as the good Doctor here" – he nodded at Dax who, he noticed with some contentment, was standing by uncomfortably. "You will always be accompanied by the Doctor. You will be allowed to visit all but the essential areas of the compound, that is the corridors, the mess, the entertainment room, and any of the crew's quarters if they permit you. You can use the intercom in any of these spaces, as it is closed circuit. The control, engine rooms and storage bays are off bounds. You can wonder outside if you want to, but I doubt you'll want to. The crew has been informed about what they can and cannot divulge. You can ask, but I guarantee you they will be cautious with what they answer. Is that clear?"

To his amusement, only Dax nodded, then stopped himself when he saw Kirk remaining absolutely still. Stephenson took pity on the Doctor. He sighed and said,

"Listen, Kirk, in light of your defiance, I could and really _should_ put a stop to this experiment before it even begins. But I won't. I admire your… persistence, and even your honesty, even though I understand that, when a time comes when dishonesty may help you to your freedom, you _will_ be dishonest. I get that, and we'll cross that bridge when we get there. No reiteration of my honorable intention of keeping you safe and letting you go when we're done here seems to help-"

"- When would that be, then, when you're done here?" Kirk interrupted him.

_Aha, now he's asking_, Stephenson thought with satisfaction.

"If all goes according to plan, a little less than one Earth month. Then we'll all be off this wretched planet."

Kirk regarded him coolly, revealing none of his thoughts.

_The cocky bastard_, Stephenson thought, _helpless and exhausted and probably in more pain than even the Doc can estimate, and he continues his defiance._

"I gotta give it to you, Captain Kirk, you have nerves of steel. But _I _have the upper hand here, and you are going to stay put that entire time and will be released on _my_ terms."

He nodded to both gentlemen and walked out, smiling, strangely enough feeling happier than he had for a long time.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

_Sixty-three Ignis days since we crashed. Fifteen days since the miners took me from their barbed wire. Thirty-five since I said goodbye to my men._

_Thirty-five days._

_They're out of food by now. They had food for twenty-six days when I left them. They've been without food for nine days. They're still alive. A man can do without food for a long time. How long? _

_What's next? Scotty would do anything. _Anything_._

_I want all of them to be safe. All of them._

_Spock…_

He opened his eyes and willed himself out of the quagmire of his half sleep. Since Dax had started cutting down on the sedatives, it was always the same: calculating, reckoning, counting… It was the worst when his addled brain muddled the numbers. Then he'd spend hours trying to figure out something as simply as fifteen plus twenty. He would toss, unable to break free from the spiral, until Dax either broke his trance or shot him full of sedatives anyway.

Looking at the Sick Bay ceiling, he had the automatic urge to go over the numbers again. Had he got it right? They were getting so close, even a day, _one_ day, mattered. Was it really fifteen days since he'd reached here? Was it-

_Stop it - stop it!_

He slammed his hand on the bed rail and bit down on the searing pain of raw nerves. He cursed. Today was another day and it would be a day when he had to hate Dax and Stephenson and the mining crew and look for a way out.

Was the rescue ship still out there? How long would they keep it up? He could send a message, or a beacon, a pulse. If he couldn't swing that, he could perhaps send another transmission to Alpha Base. They would pick up on that too, think that was odd and investigate.

He knew where the control room was. The compound was tiny. Stephenson's short summary had covered it all. There was a crew of eleven, and all but two – Dax and the controls operator – were usually "out". "Out" meant mining. This went on, he had gathered from conversations and observing reports and maps lying around, in tunnels deep underneath the compound. He could feel them blasting, sometimes: a slight rumble in the walls. They also all went in one. long shift.

He checked the PADD they had given him – its contents and connection restricted, of course. At the moment it was just him, Dax, and Savvy, the controller.

Even if he could put Dax out of commission, which he doubted, he'd also have to tackle Savvy, who was no small fry.

Was that a rumble?

And there must be a shuttle. Even if he couldn't get it out of its bay, it would have communication abilities...

"Dax?" he called out.

Now that he was stronger, more mobile, Dax kept him strapped to the bed when he wasn't around. It was just a chest strap, not too tight. He could wiggle out easily, but then he had to disconnect the line to his vitals, and that set off an alarm on Dax's monitor and send the Doc and whoever else was available running.

He knew. He had tried.

The Doc's enthusiasm for helping him out had waned considerably. Stephenson had no doubt impressed upon him the graveness of his responsibility of keeping Kirk out of trouble. And Kirk had certainly not stopped downplaying his intentions, though he hadn't quite figured out yet if putting Dax on edge had made the Doctor more, or less, on the ball.

Dax came in.

"What's wrong?" Kirk asked.

The Doctor was looking worried.

"Nothing," Dax mumbled, undoing the strap and unhooking the vitals. He helped Kirk sit up. "Probably nothing."

Another rumble traveled through the compound. An explosion, either closer by, or heavier than Kirk had ever witnessed. Dax too, by the look of him.

Kirk had surmised that the miners were close to their goal, but perhaps not close enough. Their extraction of some kind of mineral was subject to a deadline. Stephenson had said they would all be off this planet in a little less than a month, but the deadline was probably closer than that, maybe much closer. Even in the last five days when he had been out and about, he had seen the tension rise, the mood change from relieved and exhilarated to anxious. The shifts had gotten longer, the conversations in the mess – always friendly, for they seemed to like him – more strained.

Another rumble.

"Is that normal?" he asked.

Dax didn't answer. He was distracted, standing there, listening, holding on to the crutches he had just retrieved from the corner. Kirk suddenly felt that he had to keep the Doctor moving or he might change his mind about today and strap him down again. He slid off the bed and, holding on to the railing, gingerly walked over and took the crutches from him.

"Come on, let's go have breakfast," he said, trying to keep his excitement out of his voice.

_Nine days. Hurry!_

He took the lead, maneuvered out of the narrow Sick Bay into the corridor. He was already breaking a sweat. The wheel chair had been more comfortable and much less tiring, but it had impeded his passage into rooms and corridors. Kirk had insisted on upgrading to the crutches after two days of bumping into things and people.

With the crutches he just about managed to move around without help. They weren't so much for his right foot, which was bandaged, still missing two toes. They were to hold him up, as he was still not at full lung capacity and his heart was so weak it would once in a while give him a scare.

But his right hand was by now almost equally functional as his left hand, which had suffered the loss of only the two smallest fingers, and he was getting better each day at handling the crutches.

The compound was basic and clearly temporary, with concrete walls and metal doors, though the mess room was cozy enough.

He stopped at the corner.

"Is it safe?" he asked, holding his breath.

Dax stepped past him into the mess.

"It's clear," he said, smiling a little.

Kirk breathed out, then sniffed, gingerly. One of the miners' favorite pastimes was cooking from (synthesized) scratch. Nowadays they had kept it to a minimum because of what it did to him. For while the smell of frying onion or roast beef set his mouth and stomach on fire, his brain bombarded him with memories of starvation – mostly recent, some old, too.

Add to that the unspoken thought of his men in the _Audubon - nine days_ – and he had to flee from the room, nauseated and perplexed.

They stood dithering in the doorway, Dax listening for something, Kirk keeping a curious eye on him, when an explosion rocked the floor so badly Kirk had to grab the doorjamb to keep from falling.

Immediately the lights dimmed, the red emergency lights started pulsing, and the siren wailed. Dust was falling from the ceiling.

"Breach!" Dax cried out and he leaped past Kirk, down the corridor. As best he could, Kirk followed the Doctor to the control room door.


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39**

"That last one collapsed a tunnel!" Savvy said to Dax. The doctor was leaning over Savvy's shoulder, peering at the monitors.

Behind them, Kirk quietly stepped through into the room.

_Where is the communication console?_

"Who's that?" Dax asked, tapping one of the screens.

Despite himself, Kirk glanced over. The screen showed three men in an elevator, sprawled on the floor, bloodied.

"That's cage B," Savvy said. "They just made it to the top when the tunnel collapsed. They got pretty shook up. The rest are still down there! Look, here they come!"

Another screen showed a clutch of men stumbling down a tunnel filled with smoke and dust.

"I gotta go help the guys in the cage. Tree's gushing blood like a fountain," Dax said. He turned around and almost bumped into Kirk.

"What are you doing here!" he yelled.

"Go help your men, Doctor," Kirk commanded.

"Get out of my way," Dax murmured, and rushed around Kirk.

"How many?" Kirk said calmly to Savvy, who had turned around and was gaping at him. "How _many_?"

The controller got a grip on himself. He turned back to the screen. The men had reached the end of the tunnel and were piling into a cage.

"Five, six! That's all of them!"

One was Stephenson, who deposited an unconscious miner on the floor and lurched toward the comm panel, filling the screen with his haggard face.

"Bring us up, Savvy!"

The controller was desperately flicking a switch on the console.

"I can't, Boss! It's jammed! I need to go to the engine room and flip the lever manually!"

"_Wait_!" Stephenson yelled, stopping Savvy from jumping up. "We've got a cloud of radioactive dust barreling down at us from blast site eight. You gotta close those buffers or we're _all_ doomed!"

Kirk followed Savvy's frantic gaze to another set of controls, where a string of red lights grew longer every second.

"Damn it! I can't do both!" the controller pleaded.

Kirk cursed. A radiation burst at the surface would certainly catch the attention of anyone out there, but they'd all be fried. If only Savvy could go and fix the switch… But then Kirk had no clue about how to work the buffers.

"I'll do it," he barked.

"_Is that Kirk_?" Stephenson yelled onscreen.

Kirk ditched the crutches, stepped resolutely up to the controller and took him by the shoulders.

"Tell me where that switch is and I'll do it!"

"Kirk! _Kirk! _Get the hell out of there!" Stephenson bellowed, but Kirk held the controller's gaze.

Savvy swallowed and nodded.

"Cage engine room's down the main corridor, the green door. Go down, then left and through the green hatch to your right. To your left there's a large red lever, it needs to be _down_ to release the ballast. You have" – he glanced at the buffer control – "two minutes!"

Ignoring Stephenson's swearing, Kirk turned and launched himself into the corridor. He held on to the walls. His heart beat violently, his ears rushed with the adrenaline. The green door at the end opened ahead of him – Savvy's doing – and he pushed through into a grungier part of the compound. The cement floor gave way to metal grates, the air was stale and chilled.

He couldn't ignore the sudden disruption in the rhythm of his heart beat, the feeling that a hand had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart, _hard,_ a couple of times, and a slow burning sensation in his left wrist that traveled up his arm, into his shoulder, throat, and through his jaw into his left ear.

_I don't have time for this_, he swore as his heat went into somersaults.

He plunged down the stairs, grateful for the rickety handrails on each side. A fork, he turned left and saw the green hatch. It too opened in front of him. He hoped Savvy was closing those buffers below as fast as he was opening the doors on top.

Just as he stepped through, all his strength fled from him before the roaring fire that combusted in his chest and radiated to his very nerve endings. He cried out and crashed to the deck. He curled up on his side as his body seized around the crushing pressure on his chest.

But there it was, beyond the tears that had sprung into his eyes: the red lever, in the _up_ position.

Biting down on the ripping vacuum in his chest and his need to vomit, he dragged himself over to the wall and reached up for the lever, grabbed it, and put all of his weight on it to pull it down.

It stuck, then budged, then flipped with a jerk, throwing him to the floor again. His head hit the grate, and he found he could no longer move, or even breathe, and that all he was, was this fist of pain, now slowly unclenching, and the rush in his ears, receding, and fire, going out…

_Finished now,_ he thought, trying to console himself.

Anger flared up for a second.

_What have I done!_

But he lacked the strength to sustain it.

He was about to close his eyes when something in his vision changed, and it was all he could do to pay attention, for just a couple more seconds. Boots approached. Hands carefully lifted him, propped him up against the wall. A hand gently lifted his chin.

Stephenson, looking him straight in the eye.

"He's alive! Where's Dax? Kirk? Kirk?"

"Safe?" he mumbled.

"Yes," Stephenson breathed, "all safe."

Kirk could discern all the minute details of the Commander's face, so close up: the grit, the blood, the stubble, the pores. The steel blue eyes.

_Insight_.

"You saved my men, Kirk. Like I saved yours_ . Hey_, Kirk, tell me you believe me-tell me! _Dammit_-Doc! _Doc_!"


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40**

McCoy still couldn't believe it.

He wandered around Sick Bay, a man who had lost his way, occasionally bumping into things, flapping his hands at Nurse Chapel when she hovered too much, when her expression became too pained.

The hum of the ship. The clean, warm, safe _Enterprise_. Like it was normal. Like he was supposed to feel normal again.

It had been fifteen days since their rescue but his hands still shook. He couldn't sleep without narcotics. Even when he took a red pill, he often broke from his drugged sleep, shivering uncontrollably despite the abnormally high temperature in his cabin. He often cried, even in the middle of the day, in his little office, locking the door and lowering the shades. Sometimes Scotty joined him in his quarters and then they drank themselves into a stupor.

_But now he was bucking up, damnit! Time to move on! Time to get back to _normal.

Because this morning he had discharged Argyle, who had nearly succumbed to pneumonia with complications from hypothermia, undernourishment and exhaustion. The last of the rescued passengers of the _Audubon_ to be released.

_No,_ he corrected himself, _not the last. _

There he was, in one of the private rooms. McCoy stood watching the immobile figure on the biobed. Spock looked exactly as he had on that last day on the _Audubon. _A wraith, dead yet living. Nothing he and M'Benga had done had made much of a difference. The Vulcan was still in his deep coma, which Vulcan experts had diagnosed as a sustaining coma – the very last resort before a Vulcan releases his body to death.

But now there were signs that he was transferring to a healing coma. The question on everyone's mind was: how long would that take? No one, probably not even Spock, had the answer. McCoy cursed. He was impatient. He needed _some _part back. He needed someone to tell him he was _safe_ now.

Deep down, though, he didn't want to be there when Spock woke up. Because what would he tell him, of Jim?

Anger swelled in his throat. He wanted to grab the Vulcan by the shoulders and shake him, shout obscenities.

_You weren't _there, _you bastard! You could have saved him!_

He turned brusquely and fled into his office, locked the door.


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41**

Stephenson still couldn't believe it.

He had been pacing the six paces the small Sick Bay permitted for over an hour now, trying to walk off the deep conflict forced upon him by the events of the last eight hours.

Kirk was unconscious in the bed, gray-faced, looking even worse than the first time Stephenson had seen him in Sick Bay. Tubes fed into and drained from his bandaged chest, sneaked into arteries in his arms and neck, and the endotracheal tube was back, taped to his nose, forcing air into his lungs.

"If you pass out I won't have room for you in Sick Bay," murmured Dax, behind him. "Just so you know."

Stephenson stopped and sighed. Even Tree, the most badly wounded among them, had waited, in great discomfort, insisting that Dax operate on Kirk first.

"Catch some sleep, Boss. Tell the others to do the same. We've done all we can for him."

"And?"

"Nothing's changed," Dax exasperated. He was about to say more when his hand flew to his forehead.

"You're exhausted too," Stephenson observed. "We should all get some rest."

Eight hours later, both men met again in the corridor in front of sick bay.

"Go easy," Dax warned him.

Stephenson slowly approached. Kirk was propped up a little against pillows, frail-looking, but alert.

"You really did it, you know, Kirk," said the Commander, shaking his head in disbelief. "Look at you! We didn't even take bets on your survival this time!"

Kirk smiled weakly. Stephenson could almost read his thoughts: _You'd have lost again anyway. _

"Okay," he said, rolling over a chair and sitting down next to the bed. "You can't talk, so I finally have my chance to say what I have to say without getting interrupted by your snarky remarks." He sighed, then took the plunge. "We're mining Kar'ath."

Kirk's eyes, a bit unfocused until now, snapped to.

"Yeah, Kar'ath. The most dangerous mineral to mine, extremely unstable and given to toxic radiation. I was just reminded of that. If the weather permits, our buyer will come for it in ten days."

A flicker in Kirk's eyes made him take notice.

"The Federation? They left, Kirk. They picked up your crew and left soon after that. Grale was very persuasive. He _looked_ it too, after that ordeal. And there was your journal… You believe me now, don't you, that they left _with_ your crew?"

Kirk blinked slowly, which Stephenson interpreted as a yes.

"Good, good. I mean, _finally!_ So, that's our deadline: ten days, and we'll make it. We got really lucky back there. We all survived – some of us thanks to you – and the explosion only affected a small pocket. The bulge in the mother lode that we discovered some time ago is still accessible... Tell me when you get too tired, okay? Dax and, for that matter, the entire crew'll kill me if I give you another heart attack."

Kirk blinked again: go ahead.

Stephenson breathed in deeply, looked away for a second, then returned to those keen brown eyes.

"Listen," he continued with force. "I won't pretend we're not being paid for this. Hell, we are, and good money too." He stopped, but Kirk's piercing gaze left him no choice. "I can't tell you who our buyer is, but suffice it to say, they don't know about you, which – believe me – is a good thing. And we'll make sure it stays that way, Captain. After they've left we'll bring you and your Lieutenant to Liscomb, a colonized planet close to Star Base Four. You've _got to_ hang in there, Kirk! Dax tells me you'll be fine once you're in the hands of your doctors. You've got ten days to get in shape for traveling to Liscomb."

Kirk blinked, but had to fight to keep his eyes open now. Stephenson stood.

"Rest now, Captain Kirk," he said softly.

00000000000

Rayan Grale eyed the two cases in front of him. The buyer had just snapped them shut, but not before Grale had feasted his eyes on more gold-pressed Latinum than he had ever thought he'd see in a lifetime.

"One case now, the other one when we have him."

"That wasn't our agreement!"

"We cannot be certain that he has survived."

"I told you, when I left he was stable. And you know what a fighter he is."

"Yes. From _experience_," said the buyer cynically. "Still, Mister Grale,_ half_ seems to me the best solution. You'll stick around, of course, to collect the other half. That way, if Kirk_ is _alive, we will all have what we want. But if he is not, you will be sure to return to me the first half, won't you?"

Grale sucked in his breath, clenched his jaw. The sight of the other's smile stopped the protest cold in his mouth.

_Trapped_.

He eyed the cases.

"Take it," the other said sweetly, stepping out of Grale's way.

His heart pounding, Grale took two steps, reached for the case on the left and lifted it up. It was surprisingly heavy for the giant, though the other had shown no exertion carrying both. Yet Grale was damned if he was going to show it. He cradled it in his arms – no way to pull his weapon now – turned his back to the other, and walked straight to his shuttle with it.

It was the stupidest thing he had ever done.

It was only when he was at a more than safe distance from the asteroid that his heart stopped pounding and he allowed himself to realize that had gotten away with it.

One hundred bricks of Latinum! _Damn_, he could have had double that, but no way was he going to hang around for the rest. Amazing, really, that they had let him go. He guessed the Romulans were a people of their word after all.


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42**

"Chief Medical Officer McCoy. Personal log. Stardate 3462.7.

Spock is very near to regaining consciousness. The last four days have shown a rapid and remarkable recovery of all his life functions. It's as if, the moment he entered the regenerative coma, he realized what happened and now he's in a hurry. Doctor M'Benga is with him to help him break the coma, probably within the next couple of hours. I-I am-"

McCoy depressed the record button and sighed. Then he set his jaw, and pressed the button again.

"I am conflicted. I am impatient to see Spock come back to us. It will be a relief to everyone on the ship. He is the last patient from the Audubon crash… But he will want to know immediately why Jim is not here. It is my job to tell him, but to be honest it is not news that I have allowed myself to accept. Telling it, I am afraid I will come to accept it, and I am not ready for that yet… But will I ever be?

Grimacing, he pushed the button again. To his empty office he said it out loud.

"I miss him so much."

Then his alarm beeped, making him jump. He jumped up and ran to Spock's room. M'Benga was standing at the patient's bedside, peering in his face.

"Spock?" said McCoy carefully.

M'Benga stood aside to let him approach.

The Vulcan's eyes were open. McCoy was taken aback by their intense concentration.

"The crash?" Spock whispered, his voice weak and rough after over a month of disuse.

"Yes, Spock, we crashed, yes, forty-seven days ago. We crashed way off course. Davis died. Jim released the probes but not on time. You were the only one seriously hurt. We spent weeks in the shuttle, waiting for rescue, then the energy coil gave out and we started running out of time. He had no choice, Spock. He-Jim-he took Johnson and Grale and went to get help."

Spock frowned.

"Not to the Miner's Camp, which was too far away, but to this Beta Camp that Grale said was there, across the mountains. He… Grale" - he had to clear his throat - "_Grale_ made it. He called in our coordinates and we were rescued. Grale was the only survivor, Spock. Johnson, Jim-they didn't make it."

McCoy heart broke, for himself and for Spock, upon whose ashen face something like panic started blossoming. But then the Vulcan visibly calmed and said:

"You are mistaken, Doctor."

McCoy felt himself pushed to the brink.

"Spock, _please_," he hissed, struggling not to shout out his anger and despair. "He's _dead_, okay? _Dead!_ He had to sacrifice himself to save us. Read his journal. He went through _hell_ to get Grale to the Base! And we couldn't even recover his body, or Johnson's. They're lost!"

Spock's face and his unfathomable eyes remained unchanged, except for – McCoy thought - a short spark of pity. His tone of voice was, however, devoid of sympathy when it rang with utmost conviction:

"The Captain is very much alive, Doctor McCoy."

McCoy blinked.

"Spock, you-?" he stammered.

"-I _know_ it, Doctor. I know that he is alive as certainly as I know that you are."

Trapped in the Vulcan's dark-eyed gaze, McCoy suddenly understood. He sucked in his breath and had to grab the edge of the bed, thinking he might pass out from the adrenaline rush.

"Mister Spock, how could you know?" a confused M'Benga asked.

But McCoy cut him off.

"He must still be on Ignis! In _Beta_ Camp! They said it was deserted, but-we never checked!"

He ran to the intercom in the wall, slammed the button.

"McCoy to Bridge!" he yelled.

"Scott here, Doctor," came the Chief Engineer's alarmed voice.

"Set course to Ignis, Scotty, _immediately_!"

"But-" Scott began.

"-Spock says the Captain is alive" – McCoy could hear the gasps on the Bridge – "Can you do it, Scotty? Do we need some sort permission?"

"No. No, Doctor. Change course, Mister Sulu, to Ignis. Doctor, I'm on my way!"


	43. Chapter 43

**Do not fear, Spock is here!**

**Here we are, the point at which I found I had painted myself into a corner. I had to wait several months for the paint to dry before I could explore what went wrong. In the earlier version the miners were doing their dangerous work because their families were being held hostage. No matter how I turned it, it made a satisfactory ending impossible. I don't think that twist was necessary anyway so I took it out. **

**And now we can move on...**

**Chapter 43**

Stephenson heaved a sigh of relief when the last canister locked neatly into its socket on the small hover carrier. They were ready for the pickup. He glanced at his PADD: the weather was finally clearing. A shuttle should be landing within the hour. A quick exchange. It shouldn't take long.

The crew was packed and set to leave this hell hole. There was no more work for any of them on Ignis. Their last communication with Alpha Base, made when they were absolutely certain that no one was eavesdropping from space, had informed them that the Coming of Age talks with Shuria had resulted in a good settlement in return for their evacuation of the planet, which should have been concluded by now.

That was all just fine by him. His own plans, those of his crew and of those at Alpha Camp who knew what they had been up to here at Beta Camp, had changed the moment he had decided to keep Kirk and Johnson alive. They would have to run and hide, Kirk had made as much clear. It wouldn't be hard to do that, with the amount of scrip that was coming to them. A quiet, comfortable life in some small, remote colony somewhere – it appealed to him.

_It all depends on the clients now._

Kirk and Johnson would soon be moved to the shuttle. They would be dropped off, first thing, at the small colony on Liscomb, which had excellent medical facilities.

Free from the uncertainty about his crew that had hindered his recovery the first time around, the Captain had made strides this time around. He hadn't reached the state he had right before the explosion – the damage that had been done to his heart couldn't be addressed here. But he was stable, off the life support machines, and ready for the two-day journey.

Paul Johnson was a different matter altogether. He was alive, but had been brain dead for weeks now. Stephenson felt terrible about that, and so did Dax. They consoled each other that the Lieutenant had already been near death when they found him in that grave of a tent, and possibly would not have improved had they called in the Federation rescue vessel. Still, their excuses sounded hollow to their own ears.

But here they were, about to be done with all that.

The weather was clear. It should all be over soon.

_Can it be this easy?_

The two men who had helped load the canisters glanced at each other and slipped out of the cargo bay in a hurry. Only rarely had they seen the Boss go from such a beatific smile to such a scowl, and they didn't want to be there for Stephenson to, inevitably, take his foul temper out on them.

0000000000

"Spock," the Doctor pleaded, "will you _please_ come back to Sick Bay! Our ETA is four hours from now. You must get _some_ rest."

The Vulcan in the Captain's chair didn't budge. He was pale and thin as a corpse and he was scaring Bridge personnel.

"Spock!" McCoy exasperated.

"Doctor," Spock retorted coolly. "Shuria has just sighted a Romulan vessel in this sector, just before it cloaked. We have _already_ arrived."

_Romulans. _

McCoy scowled. They were in the thick of things again. The pig-headed, pointy-eared Vulcan was back and he was just as stubborn as his Captain. The Captain, whom they were looking for.

Who was alive.

He took a step back to ensure that Spock wouldn't see him smiling.


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44**

_Romulans_.

They gave Stephenson the creeps, especially when there were too many of them: six here with him, in the base cargo hold, two more waiting in their shuttle up top - _yea gods let the fair weather continue - _and who knows how many more in their ship in orbit.

The formalities had been kept brief. Now, barely ten minutes after their landing, he and the Romulan Commander waited silently for the Science Officer to finish scanning the canisters with the ores. Finally the Romulan looked up from his scanner and nodded to his Commander.

The Commander subtly relayed the nod to another one of his subordinates, who tapped a remote. A carrier, weighed down by metal cases, slid forward and came to a rest in front of Stephenson.

Tree approached and flipped the tops off the cases, one by one.

A short glance at their contents made Stephenson's heart sink.

_Just like I thought: too easy._

He locked eyes with the Romulan Commander and stated: "That's only half."

The tension in the room jumped a notch. The Romulan developed a small, cold smile.

"It is known to us, Mister Stephenson, that you dug more than three tonnes of Kar 'ath out of this rock. The Empire will reward you handsomely with the other half for the ore shipment _plus_ half of that... for Captain Kirk."

Stephenson frowned. "Ah, _that_'s why the Commander himself came down to take receipt of the ores! Well, that's too bad. Kirk's dead. Now, we'll take the other half for the ores and proceed as agreed."

The Romulan smirked.

"You'll have to show me the body."

"We buried it, out there. You can go and dig for it yourself if you want._ I want the other half_."

_I want plan A back._

"Do you really expect me to believe that, Mister Stephenson?" the Romulan tutted.

"Believe what you want, you-"

"-Come now. Is he really worth that much of your trouble?"

Stephenson breathed in slowly, regarding the Romulan through narrowed eyes.

"Seems like he was worth that much of yours," he said, quietly, tentatively.

"Indeed," the Romulan said, smiling.

The two men stood for a moment, gauging each other.

The Romulan was the first to speak.

"I see you drive a hard bargain, Mister Stephenson. Alright, I'll double you. We'll give you the half for the ores and _that much again, _for Kirk."

0000000000

In the miner's shuttle, parked behind a rocky outcrop and concealed under a camouflage tarp, Dax uttered through clenched teeth:

"Plan C?"

"Plan C," Kirk confirmed.

The Doctor spoke a few soft words into a microphone.

Kirk watched the plan unfold on the screens. He wished he could be part of it instead of sitting by, drumming his fingers on the armrests of his wheelchair.

They had counted on three assumptions on the Romulans' part: that the miners would not have expected Grale's betrayal, that Kirk would be either incapacitated or an unwilling prisoner, neutralizing his experience in situations such as these, and that the miners simply would be happy to sell him.

The first two assumptions proved to be good bets, since Savvy, with two other miners, had no problem stunning the two Romulans loitering around their shuttle up top. As for the third, Kirk had to admit that the Romulans' offer staggered even him, and for a moment he had found Stephenson's play for time a bit too convincing.

He caught Dax's concerned glance.

"What? I'm calm," Kirk said, smiling nervously despite himself.

"Don't worry about Stephenson, or any of us, Jim. We're going ahead as planned."

Kirk's smile broadened.

"Okay, here we go."

He tapped the console twice.

0000000000

"Come now," the Romulan persisted when Stephenson said nothing. "Put it to your men. Remind them that you already got away with it. They buried him with full honors. Ah, you should have seen the ceremonies. We all watched it, on Romulus. Even there, I daresay, some mourned his passing. But we know better, you and I, don't we?"

Stephenson bristled at the Romulan's arrogant presumption that they were now thinking alike. Still, his disgust was no match for the swelling rage, not at being double-crossed by _this_ snake, but at the even bigger snake, Grale, for betraying the very man who had saved his wretched person.

Then he saw, in the corner of his eye, the small light signal twice. The time for stalling was over.

"As I said," he spoke coolly, "it's too bad then that Kirk's dead."

Before the Romulan could reach for the weapon concealed in his jacket, Stephenson had pulled his own.

"U-uh, Commander," he warned, and the Romulan, scowling, raised his hands. A quick glance around the bay told Stephenson that all around him his men had their weapons aimed, covering the other Romulans in the room.

"Easy now," he breathed, and soon all the Romulans were disarmed.

"Fool! What could possibly be your plan?" the Commander sneered.

"My plan is to go back to Plan A, with some adjustments. We'll lock you up, get the other half from your shuttle – and you can keep your blood money - and we fly out of here. Then you get rescued and you fly out. And that way we all get to get off this rock alive."

"The moment you leave the planet's atmosphere my ship will detect you."

"You let me worry about that," Stephenson said, signaling with his phaser for his adversary to turn around. He shoved the Romulan toward his group and exchanged a glance with Tree, who herded them into an open container. Stephenson looked up into the concealed camera and nodded.


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45**

"But why the roundabout way, Spock?" McCoy asked.

The Bridge lights were pulsing red, but Spock had silenced the Red Alert alarm. The bulk of Shuria filled the screen. They were close enough to the planet to see the details of its mountain ranges and vast forests, slowly sliding by as the _Enterprise_ veered starboard.

Spock sighed inwardly.

The Doctor had stuck to the Captain's chair like a leech, ostensibly to keep an eye on the Commanding Officer's medical state, but really, Spock suspected, because Captain Kirk had always indulged the good Doctor's presence on the Bridge and his meddling with command decisions, and because the Doctor must have craved _this_, (almost) all of them here, together on the Bridge, in the thick of things...

No, Spock could not blame McCoy for his manic joyfulness, for the crippling doubt that followed it, then gave way to it, on and on for hours now in a dizzying seesaw. He could not blame any of them, for the _Enterprise_ he had woken up to was fundamentally different from the _Enterprise_ that had approached the Ice Planet forty-eight days ago.

The news of his waking and of his belief that the Captain was still alive had spread like wildfire, indeed causing a spike in in-ship communications the likes of which no Starship had ever experienced. Nevertheless, Spock had had plenty of time, during his first debriefing and on his first, unsteady walk though the corridors, to observe enough of the jagged wounds that Ignis had rent in the crew, before the excitement and hope started covering them.

The most revealing, and shocking, had been McCoy's nervous condition, followed closely by Engineer Scott's. From what they told him of what had happened, he gathered they were wracked with guilt. He realized all too well that, had he not woken up and told them that the Captain was alive, these two men would never have found peace.

And he sympathized, because after reading the Captain's journal, he also knew that, had he woken up with the knowledge of Jim Kirk's _death_, he too would not have found peace...

He forced himself to concentrate on the moment at hand. True, his medical condition left much to be desired, but that was beside the issue. So was the Doctor's precarious mental condition. He cast his eye around the Bridge, into every eye that was trained on him, waiting for him to reveal his plan. Whatever their trauma, they were ready, more than ready.

"Though the Bird of Prey was not near the planet when it was sighed, we must assume that it is in orbit around Ignis. An analysis of the ore samples that we collected on Ignis confirmed my suspicion – which I did not have the chance to share before the crash – that Ignis is home to Kar 'ath."

"Kar 'ath!" Scott interjected. "Dangerous stuff, that!"

"Yes, Mister Scott," Spock put in, "and the most optimal fuel for the Bird of Prey warp engines. We have known for years now that Beta Quadrant is running out of that resource, and that is why the Romulans are become more audacious in their violations of the neutral zone, and are even, as we see here, traveling into Alpha Quadrant to get their Kar 'ath. They would not mine it here themselves, of course. But at least some of the Ignis miners would have seen the opportunity. Starfleet tracked down two miners from Alpha Camp, and neither of them knew anything about Beta Camp, which they too thought abandoned. Still, they did relay that there was _some_ secrecy about that camp. It is unfortunate that the rescue shuttle let the miners take care of the Beta Camp rescue, but their lack of suspicion was understandable, and the worsening weather conditions were already jeopardizing their own survival and that of the rescued crew."

"If only we could get our hands on that _Grale_!" Scott exasperated. "He'd know wouldn't he!"

"That is not certain, Mister Scott. He _was_ in bad health during the twenty-seven hours he spent at that camp, and the miners there could have easily concealed their operations from him. However, your mention of Mister Grale raises my second reason for thinking that the Romulans are here for Beta Camp-"

"-He sold Jim out, didn't he?" McCoy growled.

"Indeed, Doctor. For a man like Grale, the temptation would have been too great."

"Damn him," McCoy burst out, and would have entered into a rant had not, that very moment, the rim of Shuria appeared on the side of the screen and, behind it, the vast darkness of space with, _there_, in the distance, the sparkle of Ignis.

"Enhance," Spock ordered.

It was not just McCoy, right beside Spock, who drew a shaky breath at the sudden sight of that icy behemoth. There were Chekov, and Scott, and Meteorologist Xiao, and everyone who had been on the Bridge fifty days ago, when the Captain had composed his Away Mission.

"Warp two, Mister Sulu, straight for Ignis."

"Aye, Sir!"

"Look at that," said McCoy softly, mesmerized by the sight looming larger, fast, on the screen. "I'd sworn never to lay eyes on that cursed planet again."

"As for our roundabout approach, Doctor McCoy," said Spock to draw their attention back to him. "Admiral Stone confirmed that the Coming of Age proceedings with Shuria were kept secret, as they usually are until a resolution is reached. Therefore we may assume that the Romulans do not suspect either that Shuria detected their presence, or that Shuria informed Starfleet of their presence. Either way, there is a great probability that they are not expecting any opposition, and that they approached Ignis uncloaked would confirm that. They are therefore also, probably, not taking the precaution of patrolling Ignis, but have simply stationed themselves on a geostatic orbit above the pole, specifically over Beta Camp. Fortunately for us, this is now allowing us to approach the other side of Ignis from behind Shuria. This prevents their sensors for detecting the _Enterprise_. Slow to impulse power, Mister Sulu. Mister Xiao, what are the weather conditions?"

"Calm over the camp, Mister Spock, with some heavy, high cloud cover. Heavy turbulence in the lower troposphere on this side of the planet, the edge of a growing blizzard system to the east."

Spock nodded.

"The _Enterprise _is faster and more maneuverable than the Bird of Prey. We can get closer to the planet than they can. Mister Sulu, take us in to nineteen kilometers above the planet surface."

"That will put us right in the planetary boundary layer, Mister Spock!" said Sulu, though he did not hesitate to lay in the course.

"I know that, Mister Sulu," said Spock.


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46**

Stephenson cursed under his breath as he halted outside the shuttle after helping Tree load the last case of gold-pressed platinum. It was only half of what they were owed for the Kar 'ath. The other half, and the half that was promised for Captain Kirk, had not been on board the Romulan shuttle. The bastards had obviously planned to double cross them, and whatever these cases held had been just a prop to their ploy.

On top of that, they also had to leave behind the precious ore that they had risked their lives for. It would have been too risky to carry it off in their shuttle. All of it was sitting inside the same container in the cargo bay where they had locked up the Romulans. It would make the prisoners think twice about using any stray weapons to blast or cut their way out, and their rescuers, once they got impatient enough to come down and explore, would also have to tread very, _very _carefully.

What a waste!

He looked up at the mountains, then back at what little was visible of the camp: some barbed wire surrounding a pylon and a small, concrete building. Then he looked up at the sky. The metal-gray clouds were thickening and soon, Stephenson knew from experience, they would start dropping thick snow. But the wind was still mild. The hurricane was still far off and hopefully its wheel would turn away from their course, or they could at least skirt it... Suddenly shivering, he jumped in and quickly closed the ramp behind him, turned into the main cabin.

"Ready, men?" he growled.

They all nodded and grumbled, knowing what he knew. He pushed through toward the open cockpit, sat down and strapped himself into the seat next to the pilot.

"Remember, Savvy, choose whichever speed and height is the easiest, but make it as fast and stay as lowas you can."

He clapped his controller on the shoulder, then turned around to address Kirk, whose wheelchair was secured behind Savvy. The Captain looked awfully pale and had even closed his eyes.

He looked at Dax, sitting next to Kirk. The Doctor mirrored his concern.

"Captain!" Stephenson said. Kirk opened his eyes. "Everything's more or less going as planned, yet you're looking a little worse for wear!"

"I've done this before, remember?" Kirk said in a painfully constricted voice.

Stephenson nodded, attempting an encouraging smile.

"You weren't flying _this _boat and you didn't have Savvy piloting."

"We also weren't going half round the damn planet!" Kirk countered, almost in good humor. "What was I thinking?"

"Ready for launch," Savvy announced.

"It's a good plan, Kirk," Stephenson said. "And we'll make it,"

Kirk nodded in thanks, and Stephenson gave the go-ahead. They took off.

0000000000

Spock pressed the comm button on the arm rest.

"Crew, secure yourself. We are entering the planet's atmosphere and will experience turbulence."

The _Enterprise _screenwent gray as they plunged into the choppy clouds. Immediately the shaking began. McCoy grabbed the backrest of the chair.

"Descending!" Sulu announced over the din. "Twenty-one,twenty_, nineteen_ kilometers from the planet surface!"

"Keep this distance and take us around the planet, slow impulse power!"

The turbulence grew steadily. Spock toggled the screen from visual to Xiao's data. The computer visualized them: a large blizzard on the horizon, and the _Enterprise_ entering its very top.

"What _are_ we doing, Spock?" McCoy yelled.

"Ah! Don't you see, Doctor!" Scott exclaimed, his smile growing broader, "it's the _submarine_!" The Engineer enthusiastically punched the console he was holding on to. "The tropospheric interference makes us undetectable to their sensors right up until we are literally visiblewhen we emerge from the clouds, _right underneath them!_"

Spock confirmed with a nod. "ETA, Mister Chekov?"

"Six minutes and twenty seconds, _Sir_!"

"Bring us up out of the cloud cover as soon as we have reached, Mister Sulu. They will have to drop their shields, charge their weapons, reposition and decloak all at once. They will be _close. Avoid collision. _Mister Chekov, you will have just a few seconds to use a short phaser burst to destroy their weapons array _first_. We do not want to be this near a combination of Kar 'ath and plasma torpedoes! _Then_ target their propulsion with the phasers. Again, be absolutely precise. If they already have the Kar 'ath on board, we do not want it igniting. It would kill the Captain, and destroy us as well."

"Yes, Mister Spock," the Russian affirmed with conviction.

"Twenty seconds to position and ascent," warned Sulu. "Eighteen – seventeen -"


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47**

_Thank the gods for a pilot like Savvy!_ thought Stephenson. The shuttle shook, but its buffers, designed for circumstances like these, held as the pilot explored the edges of the blizzard that was blocking their way.

"Too big, Boss!" Savvy yelled over the din.

A sudden lurch had Stephenson gasping for breath.

"Can't go underneath it either," Savvy yelled. "Too close to the mountains!"

"Go over it then!"

They ascended to the loud whirring of the protesting engines.

"_Shoot_ this thing goes high!" Savvy called out, his fingers flying over the controls, trying to keep the nose up.

Watching the altitude tick up, Stephenson warned. "We're coming up on the edge of troposphere. Don't overreach, the Bird will spot us!"

"Got no choice, Boss, I-_"_

The console screamed out in alarm.

"Proximity alert!" Savvy called out, and suddenly a gap in the clouds opened up in front of them and there, right in their faces...

"_What the hell!"_Stephenson breathed.

Kirk's jaw dropped at the sight of her filling the screen. The _Enterprise, just above them, massive, too close!_

"Down! Take her down!" Stephenson screamed.

0000000000

Spock jumped up from the chair.

_Jim's on board that shuttle!_

"Evasive! Take us up!"

The helmsman worked his console frantically to get the sluggish ship to rise up. Scotty cursed at the noise of her impulse engines working against the atmosphere. But she rose and in four point one seconds punched through the cloud cover.

"Evasive successful, Commander!" Sulu called out.

On the data screen Spock saw the shuttle with his Captain plunge into the blizzard.

"Switch to visual!"

There, in the pitch black of space against the churning white arc of Ignis, was the Bird of Prey, shimmering, decloaking.

"Range seven kilometers!" Sulu called. "They're powering weapons, their shields are down."

They had ascended too early, and there was no time to get closer. They were just within phaser range, but _only_ _just_. Spock glanced at Chekov, who was punching at his console.

"Phaser lock!" yelled the Russian.

"Fire!"

The blast shot out and hit the enemy vessel.

"Direct hit!"

"Their engines, Chekov!"

"Locked!"

"Fire!"

Another blast and the Bird shook again.

"It's cloaking!" Scott observed. The Bird shimmered, then disappeared.

"It was a clean hit, Mister Spock," Chekov confirmed.

"Turn about, Mister Sulu, we must find that shuttle!"


	48. Chapter 48

**Merry Chistmas, everyone. I'll try to post the last chapter tomorrow.**

**Chapter 48**

_Not again_.

The shuttle's buffers had not coped with the drastic maneuver to avoid collision with the _Enterprise_. They were going _down_ and down fast, and nothing Savvy and Stephenson were trying was helping.

Kirk shut his eyes, concentrating on gasping for breath against the strain on his chest and shoulders. The shaking was getting worse. Then came a stomach-turning lurch that, he knew, was the end of any chance to get the craft under control again.

_O gods!_

Behind his tightly shut eyes he heard the howling storm, the noise of the engines, and then, suddenly, all noise ceased, but the distant howl of the storm. All became still and suspended. And Kirk stopped breathing.

He shivered. _So quiet, so still._

He was alone here, in this freezing place on the ice planet. If he opened his eyes he would see the red eye, blinking, blinking. He was slipping now, into the crevasse.

This_ is where it ends-everything else was a dream._

Panicking he drew laborious breath, his eyes flew open, and he started struggling against his belts.

0000000000

"I can't find them, Mister Spock," Chekov said, "too much interference!"

McCoy swallowed hard, holding himself steady again the chair.

_Where is he!_

Spock hadn't said it but they all knew that the Captain was on board that tiny shuttle lost in that churning mass of wind-blasted ice.

"The tractor beam, Mister Scott," Spock said suddenly.

"But there's nothing to grab onto but ice!" McCoy protested.

"_Cast_ it, Mister Scott!"

"Oh-" Scott uttered, realizing. "Oh, _aye! _Let's go fishing!" and he turned to his console.

0000000000

A hand came down on his arm, squeezed. It was warm, it was real.

"Calm down, Jim," said Dax, "we're being held in a tractor beam."

Kirk turned toward the cockpit. Yes, the shuttle had been grabbed and was being pulled up and out of the storm. The view screen cleared and there she was again, ahead of them, plowing a path through the thinning clouds toward the dark of space. His _Enterprise._

The crew, so eerily still a second ago, burst out in cheers and groans of gratitude. But Stephenson had turned toward Kirk. His face was hard.

"Kirk-" he said in a warning voice.

"_Enterprise _to shuttle," came Uhura's voice.

Kirk nearly choked, hearing it, but he held Stephenson's eye.

"Shuttle respond!"

"Let me respond," Kirk said quietly.

A second's hesitation, and Stephenson nodded. Kirk undid his straps and with Dax's help moved in between the pilots' chairs. Savvy pressed a button.

"Captain!" Uhura's eyes lit up, and then she switched him through to the big screen, and there was his crew, and Spock, and Bones.

"Captain," said Spock.

_He looks like he did when I left him. Tired, half dead! But he is alive, and in command. My First..._

"Jim!" said McCoy.

_Bones! You too look like a ghost. I'm so sorry for letting you down. I didn't mean all those things I said..._

Kirk couldn't trust himself to speak, so he smiled. Then swallowed.

"Can you beam us out now, Mister Spock?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Lock onto Lieutenant Johnson. He is in the aft. Doctor, you will be needed in the Transporter Room."

McCoy had already turned but stopped.

"And you, Jim?" he asked, radiating concern.

"I'll join you in sickbay soon. Spock, give me two minutes, then beam me out and immediately release the shuttle."

Spock's hesitation was barely noticeable. "Yes, Sir."

The comm went dead.

Dax helped Kirk sit down again. Just in time too, as his legs were about to give out on him. He gathered himself for a second, aware that all eyes were on him. Then he looked around the cabin, half smiling, half solemn. He gave Dax a slow nod, then turned to Stephenson.

His smile disappeared. "I'll hunt you down, you know," he said quietly.

"I know," said the miner.

"Only not now, because you have Kar 'ath on board and are threatening to blow up the _Enterprise_ if she pulls you in."

Stephenson hesitated for a second, then nodded. "That is correct."

"And I'm too tired," Kirk added, and both men allowed a small smile to break on their faces.

And then Kirk's figure shimmered.


	49. Chapter 49

**This is my New Year's gift to you: the Happy Ending!**

**Chapter 49**

When McCoy walked in on them his heart sped into a flutter. He should have known that the Vulcan would leave his bed rest in his quarters to sit with the Captain. For a moment, seeing them, he thought of turning around, but then he heard the words,

"I'm glad you're alright, dear friend."

_That warm voice, I thought I would never hear it again._

He knew he should leave, but stood rooted to the spot. Spock's straight back was turned to McCoy, looking stoic as ever, but the warmth in his voice was like a blast of heat to McCoy.

"I have you to thank for that, Jim, and I will forever be grateful."

McCoy had already started taking a step back, thinking he might come in again in two minutes and with more fanfare, when Kirk saw him.

Spock rose from his chair.

"Sid-down, Spock," the Doctor groused, approaching the bed. "Don't make me tell Nurse Chapel that you're giving me a hard time. The both of you. I'm a Doctor, not a miracle worker."

Spock nevertheless stayed standing.

"I will return to my quarters. Contrary to your doubts about my self-care, I _am_ aware of my need for rest."

"And coming here, exhausting yourself, to see if Jim's alright was all part of the therapy, then, Spock?" McCoy said, but somehow the sting he had intended did not make it into his voice.

Spock stared at him for a second, then simply said:

"Indeed, Doctor."

He nodded to both, and left.

Kirk stared at the door while the McCoy waved his medical sensor over his chest. McCoy was grateful for that and lost himself in his readings, until Kirk startled him.

"Will I live, Doctor?" Jim said, smiling up at him.

McCoy felt the old anger flare up. Here was this man, _smiling,_ after all that he had been through. He was so thin, so worn-out, much, much worse than any of the men who had stayed behind. _What are you smiling about, Jim! _McCoy took a deep breath. Sure, it had all ended well. They were alive and safe - all but Johnson. And Jim was determined to get better, to move on. He was responding well to the heart operation and with another week of therapy and medication and a few months of cardiac work, he should be right again. His lungs were clear, and in the next few days they would start regenerating his lost fingers and toes. _Now, that had been a shock..._ He was even conquering his distaste for food at record pace, turning his previous experience with starvation into an asset, employing what had worked and avoiding the pitfalls he had conquered, back then. _When he was thirteen_.

_This man. What this man has gone through._

McCoy's next breath stuck in his throat.

"Hey-" Kirk said, laying his hand gently on McCoy's forearm.

"Don't start, please," the Doctor whispered.

"Bones-"

"No, no! _Listen_. What I did was unforgivable. I couldn't... _support _you. I couldn't... believe. I thought the worst of you, Jim."

"Possibly some that was correct," Kirk said mildly. "I _am _arrogant, foolish, stubborn-"

"Not just that-" McCoy started, then stopped.

"And I did need to get out of there, Bones," Kirk continued softly. "I saw it coming. I had to prevent it at any, at _all_ cost, not just the starvation, but also having to _witness_ it again. You have to forgive me, forgive yourself. Can you?"

His hand, the thumb-finger claw the Miners' Doctor had given him, already fell away.

"You're tired, you should rest," McCoy said.

"They were not normal times, Bones. We weren't ourselves."

McCoy nodded.

"Hey," Kirk said sleepily. "You haven't answered my question."

McCoy sighed.

"Yes," he said. "You'll live."


End file.
